In search of lost time
by wtvoc
Summary: Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have of them. AU-Regency era, angst, rated for thematic elements, language, and content.
1. Chapter 1

**In Search of Lost Time**

_Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have of them_. –Marcel Proust

The unseasonable rainstorm rumbled into London without the benefit of a warning, turning the already grey skies into a tiresome blanket of insufferable gloom. Everyone hurried about on their way, anxious to remove themselves from the deluge and into a warm and dry set of clothing.

But not Fitzwilliam Darcy.

No, Darcy did not pay heed to the rain. Or rather he did, but he was only vaguely aware that he ought to seek shelter and refuge from the unrelenting storm that had every appearance of getting worse. The skies turned more ominous as dark blurs rushed past him, huddling under various forms of cover, desperately seeking shelter while Darcy trudged through puddles, caring not that he was getting soaked through and through.

It had been exactly two weeks to the day that he had made a disastrous proposal to Miss Elizabeth Bennett at the parsonage. Two weeks since she had resoundingly put him in his place, had told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of him (how wrong he had been on that count!), had removed a rather large chunk of the foundation of his own self-worth that had sent it not crashing to the ground, but atop a precarious precipice that threatened to topple at any moment. Darcy knew that he had been reflecting his inner musings in his face and in his carriage since that day, but he cared not. How could one muster up the will to care about how others perceived him when _she_ was the only one who saw right through him?

Darcy impatiently brushed away a cold drop of rain trailing down his face with the back of his hand, heedless that the action was rendered unnecessary by the continued rainfall. He was too lost in thought as he stalked down the street.

_Well_, he thought, _she did not have the full measure of my character._ No, her uncharitable words may have rung with truth (perhaps a little too much truth), but there were at least some points in which she was wrong. He had done all he could to change her perception of him through that letter (that vile, damnable letter!), and all he could hope for at this point was that she perhaps did not hate him as much as she once had.

Happy thought, indeed. To wish that the lady he had come to realize was the only woman he could marry did not hate him so much as she once had.

_But she is so difficult!_ he thought to himself, and thus began a rather cyclical argument that Fitzwilliam Darcy had been having with himself for exactly two weeks. How difficult the lady in question was. How perhaps he was mad for thinking she returned his affections. How they were nothing alike. How she could be the balm he needed to soothe him. How her very presence could be the one thing that could make his existence worthwhile. And how she was much too stubborn and fixed in her ways to re-examine her final assessment of his character.

All of these thoughts swirled about in a predictable pattern in his mind, fluctuating between esteem and admiration for the person she was and an all-encompassing sense of depression and indignation that she would not have him. And her face, always her face- that beautiful, charming expression in which she would arch that imperfect, impertinent brow at him, taunting and judging him but beguiling him nonetheless.

The effect of these thoughts was that the few who knew him well were becoming increasingly anxious over his churlish behavior. His cousin the Colonel was perhaps the most astute of the three, but Darcy was certain that Richard was unaware of the exact cause. Bingley was similarly morose over a lady and would not have recognized the impropriety of his friend's standoffish manners had Darcy flung his clothes off and danced the waltz in the drawing room in Hurst's London townhouse. With a wince, Darcy pushed away the thought once again that the cause of Bingley's current emotional state was his fault. He could only handle one Love, Unrequited circumstance at a time.

As for Georgiana, the girl was too young to recognize a man who has had his heart torn from its cavity and stomped upon with a vehemently delicate slipper. Her anguish at his anguish was a continuing source of guilt for Darcy, however, and he vaguely gave rise to the thought that he ought to appear more cheerful in her presence. It was not her fault that Elizabeth Bennett found him wanting in every way.

_Elizabeth_. In his mind's eye, her eyebrow responded to his silent entreaty, taunting in its delicate arch over an eye full of passionate fury.

_This will not do. _

The rain continued to pour and Darcy continued to walk in a manner that invited no interruption. He passed through the streets of London, unaware of where he was going. He passed by Darcy House, passed through the park that was now clear of any sort of human activity. On and on he walked, lost in thought and only slightly aware that he was cold, wet, and very, very out of sorts.

With these dark thoughts invading his mind, Darcy was so absorbed in his own self-reflections that he almost didn't see the man until he had tripped upon his prone body. A crack of lightning filled the sky, startling Darcy from his heedless walk. Several feelings hit him at once: confusion as he had no notion where he was except that it was some sort of park and that to his vast surprise, it was raining rather torrentially; despite his ominous thoughts, a sense of wonder at nature that one bolt of lightning should light up the sky and give him but a moment's glimpse of all that lay before him; a primitive sense of danger and dread should the lightning strike closer than it did, which was right in front of him; alarm that the lightning should strike anyone down, much less the crumpled heap of man that lay at his feet. Darcy realized that the stranger was but a few paces away from him.

He rushed to the man's side (for it was a man in a greatcoat; no woman would wear a coat and boots such as he saw peeking out from the pile of cloth), anxiety and a sharp thrill coursing through his body as the man's obvious and immediate danger caused him to drop his selfish thoughts and react. He knelt in the wet grass and shook the man's shoulder; was he still alive?

With a groan, the stranger rolled over and opened his eyes.

Another bolt of lightning hit, this one not quite so close yet again illuminating the entire world before him. Darcy fell back into the grass, soaking the back of his breeches, but he was too stunned to notice or care.

"_You_," the man groaned. "Darcy? Thank God." Then his eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp.

In the days to follow, Darcy would wonder at his actions, would question whether the consequences of coming to the man's aid were worth all that would transpire. In the weeks to follow, he would with no uncertainty thank the divine forces at work that would thrust this man into his care and consequently his future.

Oh, that he had any sort of understanding of what the future would hold! Nay, not only the future, but his past as well- his unrelenting melancholy and the words of a certain lady of Hertfordshire- his past, his future, but no matter how much he wished it, _not_ his present.

Darcy sat there for what seemed like ages, unsure of what it was that he was seeing. Absurdly, he got the impression that he was looking at himself, but that would not be possible, would it? He saw another flash, felt the answering rumble of thunder indicating that the storm was nigh upon them, and that forced him into action. He scrambled up and rushed to the man, roughly shaking his shoulder. His entreaty for the gentleman to awaken was answered with another groan and he silently thanked God that the man was not dead, because Darcy needed answers. He ignored the relief that briefly washed over him as he helped the man to his feet; relief that at last, after two weeks of mooning and moping about, he'd have something else on which to focus his thoughts.

That something was this mysterious gentleman, who appeared to look _exactly_ like Darcy's late father.

**well, thank you for reading this! it's my first foray into **_**pride & prejudice**_** fanfic, oh dear. if you've happened upon this by accident, thank you for taking a chance on me. if you've read my other fandom stuff, thank you for taking a chance on a different fandom with me! **

**just a few things- i shall also be posting this over at adifferentforest.**

**special, special thanks to LJ summers and spanglemaker9 for reading this for me. and thanks to jandco, even though she is appalled that I have once again jumped fandoms.**

**i appreciate any thoughts you have since i'm not in the habit of writing like this, do not know what I'm doing, and am overly anxious at what is going to happen with the story. review, PM, tweets, tumblr asks, uhh letters by express. **

**Despite the story's title and the quote at the top, this will be in no way an emulation of proust. i simply found that the title and quote suited the story.**

**finally, i do not usually write author's notes to this extent, so thank you for bearing with me. **

**until we meet again!**

**-wtvoc**


	2. Chapter 2

Darcy was in excellent physical condition, but even he could not hope to carry the unconscious man across uneven, sodden ground. He made a valiant effort to rouse him enough to aid in the attempt and when that action appeared fruitless, he searched desperately for another person to come to his assistance. He could have left the man while he ran back out to the street, but something told him that this man was important and not to be left behind. He stood there, rain cascading in uneven sheets around him, clutching the man's arm, looking left and right for any sign of another person.

Finally, he spied a lone figure hurrying across the park and shouted for assistance. The person was unknown to him, perhaps some servant sent on a task and hurrying back to his master's destination, so Darcy hurriedly explained that his friend had stumbled and needed carrying back to Darcy house forthwith. The servant's eyes widened a bit and took in Darcy's wet but well-dressed form. With a nod and an "O' course, sir," the two of them were able to lift the unconscious man and drag him off the grass.

"You there!" Darcy called out once they hit the dirty cobbled street, shouting to a boy he saw struggling with a basket. He recognized the lad and could not place him, but the boy's confused "Mr. Darcy?" jogged his memory; the boy was an errand runner for Cook, and with relief, he ordered the boy to run ahead and seek assistance to carry the man back to the house. Without further questioning the boy did as asked and before the cold had a chance to chill his suddenly awakened mind, Darcy, the stranger, and two footmen had carried the man into a guest room inside the warm and welcome house.

"Sir, you'll catch your death," his housekeeper, Mrs. Rhodes, clucked after him once the doctor had been called for. "And who is this man that he's soaked through to the bone? I daresay he's important enough for you to be risking your life to bring him in from the rain," she grumbled as she forcefully pulled at his coat. Meekly, he shrugged out of it and allowed the woman to grumble at him; he was too cold and too unsettled to affect a superior tone with her. He gladly accepted a cup from her, much too hot to the touch and much appreciated. Hot tea, very strong and very much full of brandy. After a few sips that seared both his tongue and throat, he smiled a grim thank you and sat down.

"Not on the-! Sir, you must to change immediately. Go on, now. Go!" She pulled him up from the chair and shooed him on upstairs. He allowed her mothering and obliged her command, knowing that once he had seen to his person that the regular Master-servant dynamic would be restored. Rhodes was a good woman; he did not begrudge her commands as he knew they were given with more than a sense of duty; they had been together too long, knew each other's temperaments too well. She was merely looking out for him, and he knew without acknowledging it that she had real concern for him.

Trudging up the stairs still clutching the hot cup, Darcy grimaced. They had all been watching out for him of late. He could recall their looks of concern, their hushed voices as he sulked. He would have to endeavor to correct his deportment. To appear morose and to be short with the servants was beneath him. His behavior had changed, and only he knew why.

Well, _she_ knew why as well.

Then suddenly she was there, her arms folded and a furious expression on her face. He could only imagine the scolding she would give, taking him to task for skulking about in a storm, getting his clothes wet and worrying the entire household. Then she would sigh and the look of anger would soften as she would reach out and-

Darcy sighed and reached the second floor. Turning a corner he saw his valet, Walsh, hurrying toward him with a horrified expression on his face. Between Rhodes and Walsh, Darcy knew not how a man could catch his death of cold in peace. The valet, ten years Darcy's senior, stopped a few steps away and said with all solemnity, "Sir. It would appear that you have been caught in a rainstorm."

"Indeed, Walsh." Darcy handed him the tea and followed the man, suddenly feeling rather like he had tried to carry a man across London in the pouring rain. He welcomed the notion of a warm bath and the distraction of puzzling out the identity of the stranger now sleeping in one of the rooms of his house.

xxxxxxxxx

"And you've no idea who this is, Darcy?" Mr. Townsend was a relative newcomer to London; the physician the Darcy family had been using since he could remember had retired, and this one had come highly recommended from Darcy's uncle, the Earl of Matlock. Mr. Townsend was young and quite knowledgeable; he did not resort to leeches at any provocation and had the radical notion that a little sunshine would do ladies more good than harm. Darcy liked him immensely and rather wished that it were more socially acceptable to call on the man.

"None whatsoever, Doctor," he said. Three days had passed, and still the stranger had not awakened. He had developed a bit of a fever that first night that worsened by the following day, but the doctor had (rather brilliantly, Darcy thought) commanded that very cold water be brought to the room, ordering several housemaids to apply cloths soaked in the water to be applied to the man's forehead, underarms, and groin. Darcy had to insist that footmen be applied to the task for propriety's sake, and the doctor had absent-mindedly murmured, "Of course, of course." After several hours of footmen dashing about and soaking the surrounding area with water, a maid had timidly knocked on the door in Darcy's study to inform him that the man's fever had, indeed, broken. He decided then and there that this doctor knew what he was about and was keen to see in what other subjects the doctor might be proficient.

That would have to wait as he had more pressing matters at hand. "He appeared to recognize me, however, but before I could ascertain the origin of our supposed acquaintance, he fainted." The men exchanged a grim look and turned in unison to study the man.

Walsh had come in that very morning with one of the kitchen boys at Darcy's request and had attempted to improve the stranger's appearance; his hair was combed and the three days' worth of facial hair had been scraped clean; his dry lips were seen to, his clothing changed, his skin given a perfunctory scrub with a wet cloth. Now that he no longer had the pallor of a sick man and he was completely clean and dry, Darcy was able to re-examine his first impression that the man resembled his father.

Upon closer inspection, Darcy had to close his eyes and swallow a few mouthfuls of saliva to assuage the dryness in his throat; the man didn't merely resemble his father, he looked just as Darcy had remembered him; the same dark, wavy, and unruly hair; long lines etched into a forehead that had probably seen decades of worry; short lines radiating from eyes that had probably seen decades of laughter; cheeks gaunt, nose a little too long, giving the face an almost haughty appearance despite continued slumber. It was a handsome face, perhaps in its late forties or early fifties, its symmetry and sharp lines marred only by a faint scar, a line across the end of one eyebrow.

No, it wasn't exactly his father's face. The scar, for one, but there were other differences as well. The eyelashes, resting peacefully on the man's cheek, were far too long. The mouth was also different; his father had thin lips but a wide smile; this man's mouth was fuller and set in a somewhat grim expression. Shaking his head and smiling internally at himself, he stopped his intense perusal of another man's face.

Well aware that the doctor was waiting for Darcy to speak first, he turned to face him, choosing to ignore the inquisitive look in the man's eye. He needed not explain himself; he was used to others wondering why he stared so and had never offered anything by way of explanation. _Perhaps I should regulate my intensity a little better,_ he thought before clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Townsend. You were saying-?"

"No need to apologize, Mr. Darcy. I was simply noticing that…" The doctor's eyes strayed to the man lying prone in the bed before continuing. "It's just that… it would appear you two are relations, else the similarities are quite astonishing. Perhaps you have an errant uncle, sir?"

Darcy laughed at that. Darcy himself resembled his father greatly. The only thing he took from his mother's side was eye color and perhaps the mouth and jaw. No, his father did not have any brothers. Or sisters. He was the last of the Darcys, the only one left to carry on the family name. One man charged with the burden of continuing the family line. Suppressing the urge to sigh, he dropped the morose thought and blinked once, fixing the doctor with a benign stare.

"None of which I am aware, Mr. Townsend." The man seemed to accept this and nodded curtly. Sensing that he wanted to ask more questions but did not wish to talk out of turn, Darcy put one hand on the doctor's shoulder and gently led him toward the door. "But I do appreciate your being here and arriving in such a tempest as the one we had several nights past. Again, I cannot thank you enough for the service you do for this household. Please, won't you join me in the study for a drink?"

After declining his invitation, the physician shook Darcy's hand and saw himself out. Darcy returned to his study with the request that he be informed in any change in the stranger's status.

If his household wondered why Darcy was seeing to this stranger's health in so devoted a manner, they never once questioned him. It was not their place. He knew he could count on their discretion as well as their obedience; in the five years since he'd become master and indeed, the three years before that, during his father's illness, Darcy had never given his staff reason to question his actions. If the master seemed a little out of sorts of late, it was of no matter to them; he was the master, and they would do his bidding.

It was not until much later, after the supper Rhodes had seen fit to send his way that had been banished to a small side table where it remained untouched that one of the chambermaids knocked at his door. Although there were many questions about this stranger, Darcy was grateful that his appearance had suffused him with a purpose. His correspondence had been ignored or rather banished to untidy piles due to his inability to comprehend their meaning, so dejected had he been in the wake of _her_ rejection. Looking up from a letter from his steward back in Derbyshire, the maid simply said, "He's muttering, sir, but he's not awakened yet." Darcy nodded and returned to his papers.

Later, he found himself being awakened by a firm shake to the shoulder. "Sir, he's been askin' for water." It took Darcy a moment to return to reality from the dream he had been having; his neck ached and he lamented falling asleep, once again, at his desk, but not so much as he lamented waking from his dream. As he stretched his neck from side to side, groggily willing his sore muscles to cease their aching, he had a vague recollection of laughing eyes looking upon him with warmth, dark and teasing, promising something wonderful, something he so desperately wanted, though he knew not what. Standing and allowing one of the many sighs he so often had to suppress, he willed away these wondrously involuntary thoughts of _her_ and allowed his curiosity about the strange gentlemen to push she of the laughing eyes out of his mind.

Bounding up the steps with something akin to anticipation, Darcy raced toward some answers. He was unsure what it was about the gentleman (for surely, he was a gentleman!) that unsettled him so. Perhaps he would be lucid enough for some questions? Was he, indeed, some heretofore unknown relation? And why had he recognized Darcy, but Darcy had not recognized him?

Pausing for a moment before stepping through the doorway, he allowed that the answer to his unsettling feeling was simple- he knew this gentleman. He was unsure how, but he knew in the way that your body recognizes danger a mere moment before it arrives. As a young child, he had once been exploring around the grounds at the home of his Aunt Catherine when he had come across a wall that had crumbled decades before. He had climbed atop the unsteady structure and walked across it, heel-to-toe, his arms straight out on either side for balance. The daring, the _danger_ he had felt had been thrilling. That is, until he felt the sinking, tingling plummet that started somewhere below his navel and radiated, lightning-fast, through his legs and straight up his chest. This occurred half a second before he stumbled and fell off the wall, landing in a heap upon a pile of rough, ancient brick.

The torn breeches and subsequent scraped knee were but forgotten pains, but that feeling just before he'd fallen was with him now. This stranger was the wall, and just before he stepped into the room, he felt the tingling plummet below his navel.

Unaccustomed as he was to attending the sick bed of a stranger, Darcy felt very awkward, not knowing how to proceed. After standing there for several minutes, wondering whether he should try to wake the gentleman in the bed, the man opened his eyes and made several attempts to clear his throat.

"Fitzwilliam?" the man said, his voice hoarse with disuse. Darcy startled, horrified; he was plunged into a memory he did not wish to revisit- his father, a week or so before succumbing to the fluid buildup in his lungs. That same weak, rough plea, the same look of quiet desperation in his eyes.

The same exact voice saying his name.

Darcy stared for a moment before the man blinked several times and tried clearing his throat again.

"Might I bother you for some water?"

Finally, something Darcy could do. He took two steps forward to the bedside, reaching for the ewer of water left behind by his attentive staff. He poured some into a glass and held it out to the man, wondering whether he should hold the glass to his lips or allow him to do it himself. The man took the offered drink and with shaking hands brought it to his mouth. Taking several, voluble gulps, the man closed his eyes in relief.

"Perhaps- perhaps you should not drink so quickly," he quietly offered, watching with a sense of anxiety. The man stopped drinking and rested the hand holding the glass on his chest, dropping his head back until it hit the wood of the headboard with a soft thud.

After several moments of uneasy silence, he slowly opened his eyes and fixed Darcy with an intense stare. Not unfriendly, not challenging; merely searching. His eyes were dark, perhaps brown; Darcy could not ascertain their color, but they did not appear without warmth.

"You're so… young," the man finally said, and Darcy cocked his head to the side. The voice was so familiar now that it was no longer cracked with disuse. Perhaps he did, indeed, know this man.

"Sir, are you well? I can send for the doctor, he asked me to be informed if there was any change in-"

"I'm fine, Fitzwilliam."

"It would appear that we are acquainted, sir," Darcy began awkwardly. He affected his pose, the one that few knew meant he was ill-at-ease. Hands clasped at the small of his back, one foot slightly forward, a tilt of his chin. He took a deep breath before speaking again. "I'm afraid I do not recognize you. Perhaps an introduction is in order? My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy, and I hail from Derbyshire." The man continued to stare at him for a few moments and then, much to Darcy's dismay, he began to laugh.

"My, but when did we get so stuffy? This is all very amusing," he said between chuckles, and Darcy prickled in mild effrontery.

"Oh, calm down, Darcy. I daresay we know each other- quite well."

"I do not know when-"

"Hush. Listen, Darcy. Do you believe in Fate? Or perhaps the Fates. Or hell, I do not know- divine intervention? Spiritual awakening? Heaven, hell, or maybe the bloody Devil for all I know."

"Sir, there is no need for such language-"

"Darcy, Darcy." The man shook his head in amused exasperation, his eyes closed and a large, dimpled grin on his face. Darcy was beginning to regret his foul mood of late, mainly because it had put him in the path of this puzzling and exasperating man.

With a final chuckle, the man's face lost its light amusement and fell into a more serious expression. He opened his eyes and attempted to sit up, spilling water on the counterpane in the process. With a muttered oath he reached out to put the glass on the bedside table and Darcy automatically reached out to assist him. His warm hand brushed the cold fingertips of the man and he jumped back a little, startled. The man put his hand out and with hesitation, Darcy shook it. The man's voice interrupted the uneasy feeling crawling across his skin.

"My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy. I hail from Derbyshire."

Darcy blinked. That was all. The man was searching his face for something, anything- anger, perhaps, or disgust, or maybe alarm.

"Fitzwilliam?" The man's voice was full of concern. "I just said-"

"I heard you quite clearly, sir."

"And?"

"I'm afraid I have not the pleasure of understanding you. Are we related?" _So we _are_ related_, he thought. It would explain much, especially the unsettling resemblance to his father.

"In a manner of speaking. Listen, Darcy. What day is it?" The man dropped his hand and sat up a little straighter, drawing the sheet up under his arms and smoothing it across his chest.

"What day is… Tuesday, Mr. Darcy. Tuesday, the twenty-eighth of April."

"The year of our Lord…?" What was this man about?

"1811."

He closed his eyes and Darcy was almost certain he said, "Thank God" under his breath before slumping down. Alarmed, Darcy reached out and grabbed a wrist, sighing in relief when he felt a strong, fast heartbeat. Dropping… Darcy's… hand, Darcy called out and a maid rushed in; calmly asking her to summon the doctor once more, he left his staff to attend to the man. He felt tired, physically and emotionally. In a tumble of vague thoughts and confusion, he trudged down the hall amidst a flurry of activity and found himself in his room. He shrugged out of his coat, his waistcoat. Not bothering to remove any other articles of clothing, including his boots, he fell atop of his bed. Before he knew it, he was asleep. For the first time in ages, he did not dream of her.

**what **_**is**_** the man about?**

**thank you for reading, my darlings.**

**all of the angst is dedicated to writeontimenumbers.**


	3. Chapter 3

It was several days later before this _Mr. Darcy_ awakened once more. Darcy had come from his solicitor's office to the excited Rhodes informing him that the gentleman upstairs was taking broth from one of the chambermaids. Darcy did not know whether he wanted to speak to the gentleman again or not. He had half a mind to send him on his way with an offer of use of one of the carriages to whatever destination he wished, provided it was outside the city limits of London.

To say that the thoughts previously saturated with a young lady of Hertfordshire were now being invaded by the disturbing older man taking residence in one of the guest rooms would be an understatement. His correspondence was again lacking as question after question poured into his mind. Did his father have some sort of falling out with a brother that he had never mentioned? Was this a cousin? Some unknown Darcy cousin? How was he not aware that he had a relation near his father in age?

These thoughts swam about in his brain as he ascended the stairs toward the guest wing. As he approached the room, he heard the soft, sweet tinkle of feminine giggling coupled with a low, murmuring male's tone. Was he entertaining the servant?

Entering the room with a stern furrow of his brow, Darcy saw that the maid was, indeed, laughing. She reached out to dab at the corner of the man's mouth and he, in turn, pretended to nip at her fingers. Really, this was all too much!

Darcy coughed quietly and managed to make that cough sound like an order for the maid to leave, the gentleman to stop being improper with his staff, and an actual cough while conveying dismay and disapproval all at once. The poor girl startled and nearly dropped the spoon. Hastily she stood and with a quick glance from the face of the stranger to the face of her employer (and a subsequent confused shake of her head after she doubled back and looked upon the two of them one more time), she took the soup and left.

"I see you're feeling better," Darcy said wryly, arching an eyebrow and affecting his ill-at-ease stance. The other Darcy laughed, but Darcy noticed it lacked the warmth that had been there but a moment before.

"Do not worry, I shan't interfere with your staff. She was… of comfort to me." Darcy was horrified for a moment, but then the infuriating rake waved him off with an imperious flick of his wrist. "Come, now. I'm sure you've many questions of me. So, out with it. Have a seat." He beckoned to Darcy and without meaning to, Darcy was drawn to the recently vacated seat at the side of the bed.

"So. Mister… Mr. Darcy," he began awkwardly. How odd to be addressing a stranger in this fashion! "Are- that is to say, do we-"

"Are we related?" the man asked cheekily, one corner of his mouth turning up in an insolent smirk.

"Well. Yes."

Even though he'd been expecting this answer, had, in fact, been thinking that there was no other explanation, he felt a roiling deep in the bottom of his abdomen. Outwardly, he made no move, simply sitting there, returning the stranger's intense stare.

"One could say that I know quite a lot about you, and you about me."

"Sir, we've never-"

"Elizabeth Bennett." The man whispered the name, never breaking eye contact with him. Darcy's chest filled with air drawn through his nose; holding it, he narrowed his eyes. The way in which the man spoke _her_ name; with reverence. With adoration. Inexplicably, a surge of jealousy coursed through him.

"What did you say?" Darcy's voice was low, dangerous; hissing on the exhaled breath he had been holding. The man cocked his head to the side and regarded Darcy with a somber look.

"You heard what I said, Fitzwilliam."

"What do you know of- of that name-"

"Oh, I'd wager I know more than you do."

"Sir, how dare you-"

"Oh, Darcy. For once, would you attend to counsel other than your own? Or, no," the man laughed darkly. "I suppose that even in this case, you cannot. Can you? Perhaps you had better shut the door." The man's sudden command was accompanied by a wave of his hand, indicating that Darcy should, indeed, shut the door. Unaccustomed as he was to following the direction of others, he reluctantly pressed his palms into his knees for support and stood up, walking briskly to the door to shut it. Before he could turn around, the man started speaking.

"I was born during a terrible thunderstorm. It was, according to all accounts, an easy birth. Father sent out baskets to all of the tenants in celebration of the birth of his heir." Darcy's back straightened, his face set into rigid lines. The man continued in a dispassionate voice.

"When I was but eight months old, I contracted a terrible illness. They say only the constant care by both Mother and Father brought me back to health. When I was seven," he continued, taking a deep breath, "I climbed up a tree and got stuck. It took several footmen and Mrs. Reynolds coaxing me with some cakes to get me down, but I fell from a branch and received a scar across my forearm for my trouble." Darcy unconsciously rubbed his right arm, his breathing shallow and quick as he listened to the words pouring from the man's mouth. "Age eleven, my sister was born. Six months later, mother had never recovered from the difficult birth and passed from this world." His nostrils flared at this, and so did Darcy's. "Father was so silent after that. Broken heart and all that. What else… three days after my sixteenth birthday, he introduced me to the time-honored tradition of becoming a man. He took me to a certain establishment here in London where I-"

"Sir, I do not know to what-"

"Sixteen Dunbridge Lane, Darcy. The girl was young and sweet and not a virgin, despite the Madam's assurances that she was. My propriety balked at the act, my intuition reveled in it. Do you not remember what it was like? Pandora's box, et cetera. I'm afraid we men are rather insatiable about such things, eh? Father had to give myself and that Wickham a stern lecture regarding the pleasures of the flesh afterward. _Wickham_." He spat the name out and Darcy would have felt the inclination to do the same had he not felt like he was going to be sick all over the carpet. Finally venturing to turn around, he faced the man and saw that he was now sitting at the edge of the bed.

"Sir, I beg you not to continue."

"At the age of eighteen, I entered my studies at Cambridge, excelled, met Bingley, tried to ignore Wickham. At two and twenty, Father died. I took on Pemberley."

At the mention of these two things, of Father's death and of Pemberley, Darcy's countenance turned angry. He strode to the bedside and stopped in front of this, this… scoundrel!

"Sir," he said stiffly, "I do not know to what sort of trouble you're trying to stir, but these statements are, are… can be found out from anyone! Do not presume to come to my house and tell me things that I already know! I wish for you to leave immediately; I shall send for a carriage that will take you to wherever it is you come from, but I must insist you leave at once." He glared defiantly at the man who merely laughed in his face. Almost immediately, however, the man's face fell into a scowl and then he began to whisper, his voice harsh and broken.

"'From the very beginning, from the first moment of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike, and I had not know you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world that I could ever be prevailed on to marry.'"

At the beginning of this recitation, Darcy fell back a step; by the end of the hated speech, this much-thought of litany, this obsession of his- Darcy had ceased hearing the stranger's voice and heard only hers.

"'You are mistaken if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.'"

Darcy's eyes closed. How often had he repeated these words to himself that he could recite them word for word?

"'You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way-"

"Enough!" Darcy opened his eyes and reached out for the chair that he knew to be nearby; floundering for a moment, his hand found purchase and he pulled the chair roughly under him, sitting (or rather falling) into it.

It was several moments before the other Darcy spoke again, his voice louder but still soft, still broken.

"At the age of eight and twenty, I proposed to a woman whose worth far exceeded my own. At the age of eight and twenty, I was soundly rejected. Three months after that, this worthy woman's unworthy sister behaved in such an infamous manner that her entire family was brought to disgrace. And then…" And here, the man's voice cracked, and Darcy looked up to see that he had buried his face in his hands. After several moments, he spoke to his palms and the words, while muffled, were still clear.

"And then at the age of nine and twenty, or was it thirty? No matter. I married my cousin. At the age of one and thirty, I lost both my cousin-wife and my child in the birthing bed. At the age of three and thirty, I married my old friend Bingley's harpy of a sister." By that point, Darcy was breathless in anticipation of what incredible words would come out of the man's mouth next.

He looked up and straight into Darcy's eyes; his were red and full of the promise of unshed tears. With a directness that would haunt Darcy until the end of his days, the man spoke in a steady, emotionless voice.

"At the age of four and thirty I stood, dry-eyed and empty, at the grave of Miss Elizabeth Frances Bennett."

**oh my! i dedicate that last line to writeontime. she **_**loves**_** angst.**

**thank you so much for reading this! i've truly enjoyed the feedback, except for lillybellis. that was just uncalled for, my love. heh heh heh**

**thanks for the love, thanks for the encouragement, and thanks for the reviews! you guys are all peaches. thanks for darcying along with me.**


	4. Chapter 4

Darcy was perplexed. His mind reeled, jumping from thought to thought, each one asking more questions than he could answer. _Could it be? But how? Why would he…? He is a liar, he is a… how could he know the exact phrasing of her rejection word for word? Can it be?_

The room took on a blurry, shaky quality. It was dark outside; a fire had been lit before his entrance to the room, and with a sound crack, a log split, the scurrying and sliding of ashes as it settled bringing his thoughts to focus. The answers were obvious. This stranger was acting in an infamous manner. Obviously, he had heard something of the rich Fitzwilliam Darcy and had concocted some sort of scam to extort money from him. Perhaps Wickham was even involved. Yes, yes; this seemed to make much sense, and with the desperate hope that he had just answered his own questions in a shamefully satisfying way, Darcy steeled himself and looked in the man's eyes.

Once again, his hauteur was met with amusement.

"I daresay I know what you're thinking, Darcy," the man said, traces of mirth inherent in his tone.

"I do not know who you are, but I order you to leave this house immediately. You are not to speak to me, you are not to apply to my staff for entrance into this house again. You are well, and your needs have been seen to. I wish you… I do not wish you luck, sir. You have behaved in an infamous manner and have taken advantage of my kindness. It is not to be borne. Good day." He made to stand up when the charlatan held his hand out and stood up. His legs buckled and he fell back; Darcy's automatic inclination was to offer assistance, but with difficulty, he stayed as he was. The man did not deserve his assistance!

"Hand a bitter old man a robe, would you?" He grabbed one of the bed posts and reached over for one of Darcy's old dressing gowns that Walsh must have left on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Still not moving, Darcy folded his arms and one leg over a knee, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Come with me." The man took a step, his bare feet curling under the cold floor, but he continued on. He walked on unsteady legs toward the mantel, grabbing a candle and lighting it with shaky hands. Darcy watched with his eyes as the man made his way across the room. By the time he had reached the door, Darcy was still sitting defiantly, but when the man said with a taunt, "Coming, Darcy?" he reluctantly stood and followed him out.

A footman attending the guest wing hallway regarded his employer with a questioning gaze, but Darcy stayed him by putting his hand out, palm down. He continued to follow the stranger, wondering why he was doing so but still curious enough to find out what the man intended for him to see.

Darcy became increasingly more and more indignant the farther the man walked. He was coming to the more private area of the townhouse, into the private rooms of the family wing. While nowhere approaching the size of Pemberley, the London house was quite spacious, and it was several minutes before the stranger found what he seemed to be looking for. With a quiet, "ah!", Darcy felt a surge of fury as the man pushed into the Mistress' chambers; his mother's old sitting room.

"Now, see here-"

"Just wait. If this doesn't convince you, I shall leave." The man strode with purpose into the room, his task seeming to bring him more strength.

It was dark and dusty; Darcy had not been in these rooms for years. He stood at the doorway, his eyes following the soft gradation of light emanating from the candlestick in the man's hand, the dim orange glow glinting dully off the rich damask wallpaper, occasionally landing upon a vase or some knick-knack that had been in the house as long as he could remember. Non-specific memories of the room, of Mother, of fleeting happiness and warmth teased at the edge of his memory, but he was feeling too furious at this stranger's invasion of his mother's sanctuary to allow such happy memories to associate with these currently infuriating ones.

Just as Darcy had had enough, had decided to insist on this man's immediate removal by calling for an available footman, the man stopped to the right of the hearth. He kneeled down on one knee and placed the candlestick on the smooth brick with a soft thud. Tilting his head to the side, Darcy saw the soft bob of the man's head and realized with a sinking feeling that he was counting. Counting bricks, from the bottom. Fourteen up, to be exact. It was something he hadn't done since… since his mother had passed away.

That sinking feeling, that terrible overflow of emotional upheaval felt upon the realization that one is deluding themselves took over Darcy's body. He leant to the side of the doorway, knowing that if he did not do so, he would stumble. _Fourteen up, little William_. He heard his mother's voice in the back of his head, the soft, almost not-pronounced R of her more southern accent applying a soothing balm to his confounded mind. As a child he had often asked why Mother's words were different from Father's, and she had laughingly explained that the rough North made Father's speech a little rough; that was why he was always so intent on saying such kind things to her.

_Fourteen up_. His eyes glazed with pain as memories of the terrible days after her death assaulted him; the servants sobbing, his father locking himself away. Darcy had once intruded on his father's solitude- a lost boy, trying so very hard to be strong despite the emptiness he felt inside. His mother was gone, and in her place was a chubby, squalling infant, demanding attention from the only other mother he had ever known. Reynolds had tried valiantly to be a comforting presence, but in the wake of the Mistress' death, all were at a loss as to how to behave. Darcy could remember feeling a surge of anger that his father was not acting as he ought, was not directing the servants and his son and was instead wallowing.

Not that Darcy blamed him. His mother, his perfect saint of a mother, had left them.

Darcy was not foolish enough to continue placing his mother on a pedestal. He was all too aware that she was not a perfect woman, but she had been terribly close to approaching that state of perfection. Adored by her son and worshipped by her husband, she was every inch the ideal Mistress of Pemberley. His father had once told him several years later that all it took was one glance in his direction, one challenging, seductive glance, and he was gone. _Perhaps that was why Elizabeth had intrigued him so_, he thought with some surprise.

Pushing aside the near-unwelcome image of _her_ from his mind, his thoughts returned to his mother. She had known she was not to survive, had sensed it as only those who are on their deathbed can do. She had called for him several days before passing, wanting to assure him that she would always be there for him whether in this world or the next. He had stoically stood at her bed, understanding that it was not the time for the "you shall get better" platitudes that were on the tip of his tongue. At one point she had gotten a wicked gleam in her eyes, the one that was usually a sign that she was going to show him something wonderful, something that his father would surely have frowned upon, like the time she had taught Richard and him how to skip stones, or any of the times Cook had baked what Mother had called "Will Cakes", the small _petit-fours_ that he was so found of, and she would grasp his hand, that glint in her eye, and they would sneak to the kitchens to try and pilfer as many as possible before being shooed away.

With the gleam in her eye, she had beckoned and he had stepped without hesitation to her, placing his newly ungainly hand into her small, cold one.

"William," she had breathed, a sweet smile gracing her lips. "I want you to be happy."

"I will be, Mother." He daren't contradict her, or dare ask her to what she meant.

"You will find love, my darling. One day, you will be happy like your father and I are happy." Then she had lain back, closing her eyes and withdrawing her hand. He stepped away, his hand curling into a fist. She had put something into his palm. The warm metal grew hot in his fist and he swiped at his eyes with it, feeling the sway of chain hitting him on the nose and mouth. He ran from the room. He knew what was in his hand.

It was a locket, given to her by his father on the day of their wedding. He had commissioned it during their courtship, a small, delicate, engraved flower on the front. When he got to his room, he had sat cross-legged in the middle of the rug, hunching over and cupping the treasure in his hand. This, more than anything, was Darcy's sign that his mother was going to die. To his knowledge, she had never voluntarily removed the necklace since the day his father had lovingly clasped it around her neck. Darcy could remember being in her arms as a very small child, twining his fingers around the chain while she sang to him. Once he had broken it on accident and had cried, terrified at the trouble he would be in, but she had laughingly kissed his brow and assured him that if anything, Father would relish the opportunity to visit the jeweler's for a most beloved wife.

He took a deep breath and gently thumbed open the clasp; inside was a dark curl of hair, and he realized with a deep breath that it was his, perhaps clipped when he was a babe. He closed the locket and slipped it into his pocket, intending to keep it with him always, despite the inevitable teasing that would surely follow from either Georgie or Richard, possibly both.

Only he hadn't kept it in his pocket. One week after they had put his mother in the ground, Darcy's father had sent him to London to be looked after by his Fitzwilliam relations. He had insisted on being brought to the townhouse first, and the driver did not have the heart to contradict the broken-hearted little Master. Upon arrival, Darcy had jumped from the carriage and run into the house, ignoring the comforting embrace of Mrs. Rhodes, dashing up the stairs and into his mother's chambers, looking for- he knew not what. Comfort, perhaps. Instead, he had stood there in the center of her sitting room, looking wildly about for something- a sign- when his eyes had alighted on the hearth. _Fourteen up, little William_. His eleven-year head reared, and like the proverbial moth to the proverbial flame, his feet took him to the side of the hearth. He counted up, head softly bobbing in time to the numbers. Fourteen. Pry the brick loose. Dust off the ash, reach inside. With a start, he felt something there and deftly plucking it with two fingers, he pulled it out. A lead soldier, forgotten by the boy who had only put it there because it was a secret to share with Mother.

No tears filled his eyes as he had cradled the toy, remembering his mother's light laughter the day she had shown him the secret spot. "No one knows but you and I, little William," she had said, and he believed her. He still did. They had always taken care to never remove the fourteenth brick until they were alone. This was a secret she had taken, quite literally, to the grave.

Grasping his fist tightly around the toy, his brow furrowed in determination. He shoved it in his pocket and deposited the toy there; then he removed the locket. Foolishly, he kissed it for luck, or perhaps for a final goodbye to his mother. Then he laid it in the spot and returned the brick, gently brushing at the sides. There it lay hidden, forgotten, for seventeen years.

Until today.

"Here we have it." The other Darcy stood abruptly and held out his hand, palm-up, a delicate chain dangling from either side. Darcy did not react, simply continuing to lean on the doorway, an insistent throb beginning at the sides of his eyes.

"Do you not wish to see it?" other Darcy asked softly, challengingly. No, he did not wish to see it. He knew well what lay in the man's (his?) palm.

"Does this not prove to you that-"

"Prove what, exactly!" Darcy spat out, finally spurred to action by the smug expression on the man's face. He shoved his shoulder against the surface of the wood and propelled himself forward, striding toward the man, toward his past and now, quite unbelievably, toward his future. He snatched the necklace and shoved it into his pocket, feeling a sense of relief at its presence there despite the turmoil waging war in his mind. How? How could this be?

"How-"

"Come, Darcy. I assume that I am no longer going to be turned out into the street, yes? Let us return to my room and discuss… things." The men glared at each other for a moment, but the other Darcy was the first to soften. The stern lines around his mouth smoothed and he reached out tentatively, placing his hand on Darcy's shoulder. Allowing himself to be led, Darcy turned and waited for the other Darcy to lead the way.

**thank you for reading! **

**next up, darcy v 1.0's story (lol to spanglemaker for dubbing the two darcys thus- 1.0 and 2.0).**

**i like to think of one of them as bizarro darcy, but i shan't divulge to which of the two i refer.**

**i ardently admire and love all of you.**

**-wtvoc**


	5. Chapter 5

**so i stink at thinking ahead.**

**older darcy's tale is long, and i didn't want to chop it up. that's what has taken me so long to update- agony and indecision! lol**

**i'm posting his story in three parts. you might want to wait until i update two more times to read. i'll put up the next chapter on thursday and the end of his tale on saturday. so… if you want to read it uninterrupted and in one long, satisfying, 10k word story… wait until saturday. –w**

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"There you are, Mr. Darcy!" The two Darcys were startled when Mrs. Rhodes appeared in the hallway, curtailing their solemn march back to the guest area of the house. She regarded the two gentlemen who were now standing side to side and did a near double take; surreptitiously looking from one face to the other with eyes that widened with each passing moment, Darcy wondered what it was she saw.

"Rhodes," he said calmly, his master-of-the-manor voice and demeanor thankfully guiding him in all matters proper, no matter the turmoil beneath the surface. "My guest and I would appreciate some tea and perhaps some cakes? I'm told they are his favorite," he said sardonically, and the man next to him glanced at him with not only a look of amusement, but one of victory. "In his room would be fine, Rhodes."

"Of course," she replied, turning to do his bidding. Darcy was silently thankful that his staff was so well-trained. He felt the need to come up with some sort of explanation but just as quickly rejected the idea; he was the master, was he not?

The two men returned, no more servants interrupting their march back to what Darcy felt was going to be a rather long and stormy night.

With each step that he took, Darcy pushed aside the thoughts crowding into the forefront of his mind. He followed this stranger, this man claiming to be… this man claiming to have knowledge of future events. Could it be? How can this be possible? Attempting to convince himself that it was all a trick (but knowing without directly acknowledging the unlikelihood), Darcy decided to allow the man to do all the talking and he would merely sit and decide for himself the next course of action.

…_the grave of Miss Elizabeth Frances Bennet_…

"…And still, all the same, I'm gladdened to see the London house as it was. I'm afraid my second wife turned it into a God-awful eyesore once I gave her free reign to change it as she liked," the man was saying as they entered his room. Darcy shook his head twice, realizing with no small embarrassment that he hadn't been attending what his guest had been saying. He made a noncommittal "hmm" sound, busying himself with finding the most comfortable seating arrangement possible.

"Perhaps we should sit near the fire?" the older man offered, and Darcy followed him without comment, seating himself in a comfortable chair with his back to the fire. Rhodes came in at that moment followed by a maid, both bearing trays with tea, cakes, some small sandwiches, and assorted other things that Darcy knew he would not be able to stomach. With a curt nod, he dismissed the two women; Rhodes softly shut the door upon her exit, and Darcy leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin and waiting for the man to begin.

"Do I need to further convince you, Darcy?" the man said cautiously, and Darcy glanced over to see whether he was again speaking with amusement; the other Darcy was, however, frowning; serious; intently studying the fire in the chair across from him. Darcy shook his head once, casting his eyes to the rug and studying the intricate pattern there woven with muted shades of green and gold. Vines. He had never noticed before.

"I suppose I ought to start with the how," the other ventured, and Darcy nodded, still not looking up.

Sighing, the man picked up a cake and sniffed at it delicately. "I've missed these," he murmured, then took a small bite off of the corner. "So. _So_. Darcy. How strange to be addressing you thus! Darcy. Your name. My name, yours and mine. Such a name gains you entre to the smallest and most highly sought-out social circles of England, eh? How does it feel knowing that it means nothing, nothing without the means of gaining true happiness? Ah, but I'm just a foolish old man," he continued, gulping the rest of the cake in one unseemly bite.

"Mr… Darcy. Perhaps you could begin with how it was that you… _why are you here_?" Darcy asked, the last few words ending in a whisper. His head was beginning to throb all over.

"I'm afraid I do not know how it is that I got here, Fitzwilliam. But I do know why."

"Does this have to do with… with Miss Bennet?" Darcy found that he could not say her name.

"Old man, it has everything to do with Elizabeth Bennet. It always has, and it always will. Surely, even now with the pain still so fresh, you know that?" The other Darcy's voice was hushed, reverent, and Darcy was beginning to recognize that he saved that certain voice for when he talked of _her_. He wondered if he did the same thing. That is, if he ever talked of her to any but his own self.

"Do you really want to know how I come to be here? I would like to know that as well. All I know is that one moment I was barking at old Walsh to bring me a fresh decanter of brandy, and the next I knew I was out of doors, stumbling about in the rain. That in itself is no irregularity, for I fear that I have become rather careless about what I do when intoxicated. But how strange it is that I feel unburdened discussing this with you! People usually think talking to one's self is a sign of lunacy," he said drily before taking a drink of tea. Returning the cup to its saucer with a soft clink, he sighed and picked up his tale.

"What I remember is the rain coming, swift and fast. The skies were suddenly much darker and more ominous; I rather felt like I was in some ridiculous gothic novel penned by a well-bred lady; the deluge matching my mood and portents to come, et cetera. I spied a young lady in the distance, running for cover, holding her hand to her bonnet as she ran and turning her face to the rain, laughing in absolute delight. My muddled mind thought, 'Just like Elizabeth,' and like that, I was angered. At the world, at myself, at _her_. Simply livid! Next I knew, I was on my knees and retching into the grass, feeling pitiful and ridiculous. The great Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, the haughty, arrogant bastard who was always so conscious of society and what they thought of him, was losing the contents of his stomach because he saw a girl who reminded him of the lady whose affections he lost some twenty years prior. Who was currently in the ground, buried, never to again turn her teasing gaze on some unsuspecting, lovesick fool. Then I'm sure I thought some uncharitable things about her or her family or God knows what else, but it ended with a sickening plea to the heavens to make it right, this wasn't the way it was supposed to be, other melodramatic claims. I'm sure I shook my fist at the sky once or twice.

"I can remember a clap of lightning, the smell of burning hair but more pungent, more organic. Then I was lying on the ground and you were kneeling over me, shaking my arm and looking for all the world like my reflection from twenty years ago. It was all so singular! And yet. And yet, I _knew_ what had happened. It was so simple. Do you know what it is yet, Darcy?"

Darcy shook his head grimly, the hairs in his arms shifting as a field of grass swaying in the wind. He leaned forward imperceptibly, wondering what the man could possibly say next. The very, very odd thing was that Darcy knew what the man was saying was not prevarication; he was speaking the truth.

"Redemption." The man drank the last of his tea and set it down, crossing his ankle over his knee.

"Redemption?"

"Yes, Darcy. Don't you see? Somewhere, somehow, you will mess up. And I'm here to right it. It's all so simple!"

"Sir, I would say that this is anything but simple. You- you should not be here! How can you be here? It is unnatural, it is-"

"Unnatural? She was never supposed to die, Fitzwilliam. That, indeed, was unnatural." The other Darcy's voice was so quiet that Darcy could almost not hear it. He felt a tightness in his chest and absent-mindedly began rubbing his collarbone. Banishing the vague blackness seeping in his mind at the thought of her demise, he pressed his lips together and re-focused on the man's monologue. He had no response for that which he did not wish to dwell on.

"You do not know what it is to live in a world in which Elizabeth Bennet does not exist," he continued in that same soft whisper, almost as though he were talking to himself which, Darcy reflected with exasperation, he _was_.

"Surely, you understand that there is no other woman that will do," the other Darcy said, his voice louder, firmer; a desperate sort of conviction making it clearer. "You _cannot_ allow for this to happen. I have done nothing but reflect on over two decade's worth of regret these past few days, Fitzwilliam. It is quite clear to me that I am here to rectify an egregious error in happenstance. Call it… I do not know. Fate. I like to think of it as divine intervention, but perhaps that is my arrogance talking," he said with a mirthless laugh. Then his countenance turned dark and more serious as he met Darcy's eyes. "We _will_ prevent this from happening."

"And just how do you propose we go about this, sir?" Darcy asked stiffly, for his growing head pain and severe unease were worsening the more the man spoke.

"Do not be so obtuse, Fitzwilliam. You must _make_ her fall in love with you!" The man spoke as if it were the most obvious solution to all the problems of the world, the answer merely sitting there for him to grasp and make use of at his convenience.

"But I am the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed on to marry, do you not remember? Or perhaps," he said with some intended malice, for really, this was all too much, "in your old age you have forgotten?"

"Do not pretend to be bitter, Darcy. You do not know what true bitterness is, not yet. It does not suit you. No, I rather prefer the young heartsick man that I know you to be. We shall prevail, sir. But now, I must to bed. Go. Leave me. I will… I will pick up my tale on the morrow. Or perhaps… would revealing too much be of detriment to us both? I do not know," he uttered, and Darcy was certain that he need not be present for the conversation, so with a curt nod he excused himself and rushed back to his chambers, for once wishing to succumb to the comfort of brandy and realizing with a start that the evidence of losing one's self in drink was perhaps sleeping in a bedroom one floor down.

_These are strange times, indeed_, he thought wryly as Walsh aided him in preparations for bed; his sleep was wrought with disturbing dreams in which he chased something and was similarly chased; to what end, he was unsure. Awash with uncertainty was a condition Darcy had almost become used to in the prior three weeks' worth of fitful sleep.

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**thank you for reading! i know; 'tis a terrible place to leave it off. i told you. ya shoulda waited until saturday. ;D**


	6. Chapter 6

**part 2 of the elder darcy's tale continues… part 3 shall be posted saturday if you wish to wait for the entire thing. **

Darcy awoke with a start, taken aback by the bright sunlight filtering through a crack in the curtains in his room. For a moment he was unsure as to what he had been dreaming; his head was full of vague images of doom; impressions, really. It had been the sort of dream where one knew that the dream had been distressing and disturbing, even if the subject or events of the dream were uncertain in the remembering. At first he thought he was feeling a touch of a hangover when all of the events of the previous evening came flooding into his mind; _the other man, he was_-! _And Elizabeth, she was going to_-!

He did not wish to face the day. No, he wanted to stay abed, feign illness. Perhaps order strong tea with stronger spirits added; to avoid, to deny; anything but to face what he knew to be coming.

His older self's tale of how she dies.

A soft knock interrupted his grim musing and with an unnecessarily harsh "come!", he allowed the servants to go about their business lighting fires and getting him ready to greet the day. He had to turn his face from the harsh light as Polly, one of the chambermaids, threw open the curtains. Despite the brightness, he noted that it was, in fact, grey and foggy outside. How fitting, he thought without humor.

"There, sir," Walsh murmured, tying his cravat in the same methodical manner as he had for years, giving Darcy that unconscious sense of comfort in day-to-day rituals that he wasn't aware he needed. Darcy stood abruptly, his morning routine finished. Normally, he would take breakfast and then begin seeing to his affairs, but his situation was far from normal. Now that the mystery of his guest was seemingly solved, he knew that he would have to face the truth of it. As Darcy walked in his purposeful manner down the stairs and toward the dining room, he told himself that he would face whatever Mr. Darcy could have to tell him.

As to what he would do with that information, he could not say. What he did know to be certain was that the sense of disquiet, of… tasks left unfinished, for want of a better term, needed to be addressed. Feeling confident that engaging the task in a decided manner would see to its swift resolution, he strode into an informal dining room to eat some breakfast. It would seem that all of his emotional upheaval of late had kept his appetite at bay, but the swift decision to change fortune with the surprise guest upstairs had triggered his stomach to engage in some upheaval of its own. Smirking at the unseemly growls emanating from that quarter, he seated himself and called out for something to eat.

"Ah, good. You're up. Listen, Darcy. I'd like to see about something else to wear," the other Darcy said, walking in and looking much better than he had since Darcy had met him.

"Of course, sir," he said, realizing that he would have to address the man in some way that would be of comfort to them both. "Have… have you given any thought to how you should like to be addressed?" Breakfast plates arrived for them both, and the other man took a bite of cold meat, chewing thoughtfully.

"I have. You were not aware that you had a cousin living abroad, were you?" He smiled benignly as Darcy pondered the possibilities. "A long-lost Darcy cousin. Not much in the way of fortune, I'm afraid, but quite the rogue. Not that I'm expecting to be introduced to society, Darcy. Although it would be lovely to see Richard and Georgiana again…"

"Why? Has something happened to them?" Darcy asked with a start. Oh, this was simply too much to comprehend! "Do they- I mean, have they-"

"Oh, nothing like that," the other man waved off. "I simply meant I should like to see their younger selves. Come now, Darcy," he said, his joviality grating on Darcy's nerves as his heart rate returned to normal, "not everything I shall tell you should be taken so seriously." Darcy glowered as they ate their meal, no other words exchanged until both were finished.

Calling for Walsh, Darcy made arrangements for suitable attire for his cousin. Walsh's eyes shifted imperceptibly at the mention of the word "cousin", but he made no comment, simply nodding his head once and turning to do as he was bidden. With further instruction to the staff to not interrupt, he led the gentleman to his study to finally hear what lay in store for the both of them.

"William. I should like to be William Darcy. It is fitting, is it not?" 'William' smiled before continuing. "Let's see… we need not create too many details lest the web of subterfuge become too complicated. Your father's cousin went to the New World to seek his fortune. You were unaware you had other Darcy relations until I showed my face. I… lost my beloved wife and subsequent desire to stay in America, wishing to seek the place of my ancestor's birth. That ought to do. Just romantic enough to satisfy the gossipmongers, but boring enough that no one will peer too closely into your private life to ascertain any detail. You, of course, being known for your duty to family, shall put me up and see to it that I live with some comfort here in jolly old England. Will that be sufficient?" Darcy nodded, his hand grasping his chin.

"Now, I shall begin the sad, sad tale of your life after Miss Bennet soundly calls you out on conduct unbecoming. Let's see, Aunt Catherine… Anne. Oh, Annie," he murmured sadly, looking away for a moment. "You must treat her well, Darcy. She is the sad pawn in all of this business, is she not? Poor Annie. My regret in regards to our cousin is that she always knew I would love another. At any rate, you write Miss Bennet that letter. You leave the next day, she returns to London the following week. This much you know, eh?" Darcy again nodded, wanting to interrupt but sensing that to do so would put a dent in his self-composure. He listened intently, his heart growing heavy as he remembered his flight from Kent, the black state of mind he had been in every time he thought of _her_, of her just refusal, of her eyes, so eloquent in their indignant rage.

"I moped. For weeks. Richard came back from reporting to his station, wondering 'what the hell has crawled up your arse and is chewing its way through your innards.' Such a way with words, our cousin. I told him to mind to his own, but I suppose my dejected mood proved to be worrisome, so he enlisted Bingley to try to cheer me up. Balls, dining parties, the Club, the theater, fencing. All of the pursuits that a gentleman was supposed to be interested in. Naturally, nothing worked. In exasperation, Bingley suggested we return to Netherfield for some sport, and I suppose my perking up at the idea made both him and Richard suspicious, but neither said a word. Richard suggested that we bring Georgiana along, assuring me that Wickham was no longer in the area. He had checked. The militia had moved on to Brighton.

"I sent a letter to Georgiana that I would be staying with Bingley, asking if she should like to join us. I'm not sure why, but I wanted my sister at my side. At that point, it was… July, or perhaps the end of June. I had not seen her, did not wish to be seen by her. She was still healing from that horrible… I did not wish to alarm her with my morose and terrible behavior. I'm afraid I did not do much for my reputation with the ton during the two months following my return from Kent. I did not care; I knew that they would soon forget my boorish behavior. It is pathetic, is it not, that London Society forgives the rude behavior of a gentleman so long as that gentleman is worth so much a year?

"Georgiana accepted, and I rode up north to Derbyshire to accompany her to Hertfordshire. I could see that she was worried for me, and while I felt terrible for worrying her so, I was unable to lift my mood. It was dark, but I could feel an impending sense of light, and I did not wish to dwell lest I get my hopes up. For you see, Darcy, despite Miss Bennet's harsh, enlightening words as to my character, I was still hopeful that I could amend our relationship. Oh, I had no qualms about it- I knew she would not have me!- but I hoped that I would at least be able to repair her opinion about my status as a gentleman.

"With my thoughts vacillating between analyzing my every action during my previous stay at Netherfield and chastising myself for each slight given, for each time I awkwardly turned to a window instead of attempting to express myself as I see others do, I made a plan: let Miss Elizabeth Bennet see me, the real me. No façade, no arrogance. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man who was simply attempting to do right by his family, his name, and his honor. I had no idea how I was to accomplish this, but I fervently hoped that seeing her again would serve to push me in the correct direction.

"Alas, when we arrived at Netherfield, Bingley informed me with that sad downturn of his mouth that Miss Elizabeth had gone touring with her aunt and uncle. In the next breath, he informed me that Miss _Jane_ Bennet was still at Longbourn, and then he heaved a great sigh of longing that only Bingley can ever accomplish. I had initially worried that he had discovered my secret, but it would seem that he had thought the lively spirits of Miss Elizabeth could only serve to cheer me up some.

"Crestfallen that I would be unable to see her, I decided then and there to begin my journey as a gentleman in action as well as name by attempting to reverse the opinion of everyone in the neighborhood. I conversed. I engaged. I flattered (but not overly so). I asked Sir William Lucas to tell me the story of how he came to be a Knight of the Realm. I assured Mrs. Phillips that her cook's jam rivaled that of my London cook. I engaged in a very witty conversation about the American frontier with Mr. Bennet, which I am surprised to report was rather enjoyable. That man, Darcy! It's no surprise that Elizabeth had such wicked, sharp wit with _such_ a father. I even complimented Mrs. Bennet on her ability to set a fine table. She was so stunned to silence on that compliment that I actually congratulated myself on becoming so congenial, for I assure you that her reaction was not to be expected. It was surprising, how my small attempts at ingratiating myself to strangers were proving to be successful!

"All of these things I did with the specter of Elizabeth hanging over my head. For weeks, I did these things, wondering when she would return. I ached to ask after her but knew that I could not. Richard and Charles were already forming their own opinions as to what had caused my sour, petulant mood that I did not wish to give fodder to their musings. Richard later informed me that he had already determined I was 'moonier than a werewolf in heat' over Elizabeth Bennet, whatever _that_ meant, back in Kent, but he did not tell me this until well after her death." William flinched as he said this; without meeting Darcy's eye, he continued his fascinating tale of Darcy's coming future.

"Finally, after a week or so of sport and increasingly pleasanter interactions with the country-folk, I heard the desired information: Elizabeth was touring in the North. Yes, _cousin_," he said, nodding seriously when Darcy's face lightened in wonder. "She was near Pemberley. The intelligence came from Miss Jane Bennet, whom it would seem was the most astute of the bunch.

"We had been conversing during a dinner at Longbourn. Elizabeth's sister Kitty and Georgiana had formed a tentative friendship, and Mrs. Bennet was taking every opportunity to advance the acquaintance. She had invited all of us to dine one evening, and Bingley accepted without seeking any of our consent. Not that I minded; I had come to realize that the man was still in love with Miss Bennet, and my conscience rankled with the knowledge that I had endeavored to sever their acquaintance. Without outwardly acknowledging it, I pressed him to forward his suit. I can remember how grateful he looked when I told him to 'get to it, then', can remember how guilty I felt after Elizabeth's revelation regarding Miss Jane's feelings. And Bingley. That he never knew what an interfering fool I really was, or at least never stooped so low as to point it out to me, is another regret I shall carry to the grave. Bingley is a far better man than I, even if I shall always feel that he was perhaps a bit of a coward in allowing my arrogance to overcome his every inclination.

"Where was I… oh, yes. Miss Jane Bennet. What an elegant lady she is, Fitzwilliam! She and Elizabeth are so alike in so many ways. The same strength of character, the same fortitude; the same unwavering grace. And yet, they are as night and day, not only in countenance. Whereas Jane's strength has a foundation in integrity, Elizabeth's comes from an inner fire; surely you've noticed how passionate the lady is! What am I saying, of course you have," he smirked knowingly, and Darcy felt a flush rise up through his chest. The older man continued. "Jane and I grew to become friends after her marriage to Bingley. Yes, Darcy. Marriage. They became engaged soon after I left for Pemberley. But we aren't there yet.

"That night at dinner, I was seated in between Jane and Georgiana. As my sister was busying herself between stilting conversation with Miss Catherine and blushing over the laughingly caustic comments of Mr. Bennet, I was finding myself engaged in conversation with Jane. She was also seated by Bingley and no doubt wished to converse with him, but I suppose her sense of duty to a withdrawn guest made her feel that she needed to attend to me. I must say, I'm rather glad she did, for she gave me the needed information: her sister was with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, and they were visiting Mrs. Gardiner's childhood home in Lambton. 'Lambton?' said I, startling so much that I nearly spilled my soup. 'That is very near Pemberley!' Jane smiled demurely and before leaning forward to sip her own soup, she regarded me from the corner of her eye and said in that quiet way of hers, 'I know. Lizzy told me in a letter.'

"My mind raced. Elizabeth had written of Pemberley? Had she visited? Was she there now? Would she tour the estate, see where I lived? These and a thousand other questions poured into my mind, and I found myself grinning happily. I recall Richard becoming distracted by my smiles so much that he dropped his spoon. I desperately wanted to glean all information about Elizabeth as possible from Jane, but I knew I could not. She seemed to sense this, however, for she next informed me that they should be nearing Pemberley in the next few days, according to the dates in Lizzy's last letter. How I adored the appellation 'Lizzy'! She then gave me a significant look and in the next moment turned to Bingley. She said nothing more of her sister for the rest of my visit."

Pausing to look around, William asked for something to drink as his throat was becoming dry with the telling. They decided to take a small break, Darcy walking to the window, his mind strangely devoid of any commentary. It was disconcerting to hear of people he knew, places he'd been; things he was to do in the coming months. He knew not what to do with it except continue listening.

After ringing for tea and waiting for the door to the study to shut reassuringly, William resumed his story.

"I'm sure you will not be surprised to learn that I made plans to leave for Pemberley the following day. I had no reasons to offer to Richard, Bingley, or Georgiana, much less the rest of Hertfordshire. I only knew that something was calling me home, and that something had laughing eyes and a hold on my heart. I was desperate to see her. I wanted to leave as soon as possible, unable to wait for the others to join me. I think Richard had cottoned on at this point, for he assured me that he and Bingley would see that Georgiana arrived at Pemberley safely; invitations to both Jane and Kitty were issued for a visit to our home, sending Mrs. Bennet into a state of rapture that I do not care to recall. I spent the day at Netherfield, impatiently arranging for my hasty departure. I left the following morning, the hope of seeing Elizabeth pressing me onward. I only stopped to change horses, hoping to have at least one day with her before the others arrived.

"It was not to be, Darcy." Here he sighed heavily, taking a sip of his tea and wincing at the hot liquid touching his tongue. "It would seem that some very important letters were received while I was preparing for my flight and then on the road. That day that I spent at Netherfield, putting my affairs in order? An express had arrived from Brighton regarding the _other_ Bennett daughter, one I had not even realized was not present. Lydia Bennett," he spat, briefly closing his eyes in disgust, and Darcy wondered what had happened to get such a reaction from the man. "Lydia had followed the militia to Brighton, and it would seem that she became enraptured with the charms of a certain officer that you know well."

"No. Not-"

"Yes. Wickham. The blackguard left with the idiotic Lydia. Spirited her away to God-knows-where. A Colonel Forster, Wickham's commanding officer, immediately sent a letter to Mr. Bennett, informing him of his officer's infamy. But I was unaware of this; I was stupidly taking the time before my trip to make sure that… you know, I do not even remember what. And it isn't as though the family informed us of these bad tidings; we were all busy packing up to leave for the North, and that sort of information isn't something one volunteers to their social betters, is it?

"Jane, as she would inform me years later, begged her father to send an express to Elizabeth, asking her to return home. In a scene borrowed from Romeo and Juliet, the express rider most likely passed me on the road home. I was in a rush to get there, but I was not riding like the devil to do so. Perhaps 'casual haste' would best describe it. I've agonized over this hundreds of times, Fitzwilliam. I think the letter from Longbourn preceded my arrival by mere hours. By the time I had reached Pemberley, Elizabeth and her relations had already left Derbyshire.

"I can remember enquiring after Mrs. Reynolds whether a young lady and her Aunt and Uncle had asked for a tour of the house, and she had informed me with a curious expression that no, indeed, no such visitors had come to Pemberley of late. Disheartened, I had a footman go to the village and see if he could find any news of persons going by the names Bennet or Gardiner; he informed me that there had been three people bearing those names at the inn, but they had left in haste not several hours' past. I was perplexed. What could have made them leave in such a hurry? It would take days for the intelligence to come to me in the form of Richard. When he and Georgiana returned without Bingley, I was sure something untoward had happened. Richard informed me that there was a big to-do at Longbourn, and not wishing to interfere, he had brought Georgiana home. Bingley had chosen to stay at Netherfield, no doubt to make himself useful to the Bennets. I only wished that I had possessed his patience and had remained back in Hertfordshire.

"The truly tragic part of this story, Darcy, is that I was unaware of what had transpired until it was much too late. Bingley eventually ferreted it out from a distraught Jane, but it never occurred to him to inform _me_ of what was happening to the Bennet family. It was days before I learned that Elizabeth had returned to Hertfordshire; it was weeks before I discovered why. And the source of the intelligence! Aunt Catherine herself. In one of her many letters recounting the minutiae of her estate, she informed me that her parson's family was in disgrace. His youngest cousin Lydia had run off with 'that Wickham man'; his cousin Bennet had suffered in illness from the stress of the situation. And, worst of all: Elizabeth had gone in search of her wayward sister.

**onward, onward. forever onward. i promise the end of his story will be posted saturday, barring my demise or my sister's elopement to gretna green with a fiend…**

**but honestly, elizabeth. what were you even thinking?**

**thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

**k, here's the third and final part of darcy 1.0's story. if you've been waiting, well. go back to chapter 5 and read straight through.**

"Elizabeth!" His cry was so unexpected, his face crumpling at the utterance of her name, that Darcy was frozen in disbelief and horror, but not in response to the man's obvious distress. Darcy was horrified that Elizabeth, the sensible, intelligent Elizabeth, could do such a thing! The two men sat there, both silently struggling to compose themselves for different reasons with the same tragic cause. Elizabeth Bennet acting without forethought to save her wayward sister was not out of character, but it was certainly misguided. Darcy closed his eyes and removed the imagined expression of terrified shock on Elizabeth's face, breathing deeply until his heart ceased racing. He opened his eyes to see that William was still in anguish; he was doubled over, clutching at his sides and gasping. Darcy was unsure what to do; finally, he leaned forward and attempted to pat the man on the back, but William sat up and smoothed his face back into the somewhat bitter expression that seemed to be his norm.

"Elizabeth," he continued, his voice cracking only slightly, "had taken it upon herself, in light of her father's recent downturn, to find her sister. Foolish, foolish woman! What could she have been about, traipsing around London trying to find an un-findable fiend! I suppose she justified it in her own mind, but we both know that Elizabeth Bennet keeps to her own counsel regardless of the situation. Anyway, by the time I had learned of what had happened, which was weeks of torture, I can assure you, Elizabeth had vanished. Everyone was in an uproar. Mr. Bennett, in hearing that not one but _two_ of his daughters were missing, took a turn for the worst, and I'm afraid to say that his passing occurred but shortly thereafter. Mr. Gardiner, with assistance from both myself and Richard, sought any news of Wickham, Lydia, or Elizabeth, to no avail. I promise you, Darcy. I used every bit of information at my disposal. Mrs. Younge- you remember _her_, Darcy- led me on a roundabout sort of trail that turned up cold. The closest we ever came to finding Wickham's whereabouts was the dubious intelligence that he had stayed in a dank, disgusting lodging house with 'that busty lass with the 'orrible temper', but I never learned to which lady they were referring. Nothing. Nothing at all.

"Can you possibly imagine how terrible those days were? It was… I cannot describe it. I tell you this story with little emotion, my outburst of a few moments ago aside. It has been so long since all of this happened, you see; I think it was in these darkest moments that all of my hope for the future died. That seems like a melodramatic assessment of the situation, but I assure you- that is exactly what came to pass. I never had another light, hopeful feeling again after that, save when Annie informed me that she was to give Pemberley an heir. Oh, and when I realized that the heavens had answered my prayers and sent me to you, of course." At that, he gave a wry smile and tipped his cup of tea in Darcy's direction, to which Darcy gave an exasperated laugh.

"And… and how did you come to… you said you found her grave?" Darcy was unwilling to ask this question, so caught up in the terrible tale he was. The man's words, his every reaction; the solemn bitterness in which he related most of the tale solidified every doubt Darcy had regarding the veracity of the man's existence; strange as it was, it was as though he was watching himself in a mirror. He recognized the man's mask as his own, aged approximately twenty years; he saw the bitterness, the rejection. The only real difference, aside from some grey hair at the temples, was that despite their lifeless appearance, his eyes shone with a zealous light when he mentioned Elizabeth, and Darcy was almost afraid to speculate as to what end they shone.

"Ah. Well, let's see. I told you that no news of Miss Elizabeth was to be found. At least, not for several years. Let me return to Bingley for a moment; he did propose to Jane, but she did not immediately accept him. The worry over her sisters and her father prevented her from doing so, and Bingley patiently waited. When Mr. Bennet passed away, Bingley was prepared to wait out the full mourning, but surprisingly, Jane insisted they marry right away. She recently told me that she didn't give a damn what society thought of her, shocking several years from my life at hearing that fine lady curse and putting a rather large grin on Charles' face.

"Now to me. It took a while for me to stop being so frantic about finding Elizabeth. I would like to say that I never gave up the search, but there were some days that I was so unsure as to what avenue to search next that I gave up and sank into a deep state of melancholy. Nothing could cheer me. I would wake at my desk, my hand still wrapped around a tumbler, Walsh trying to pry it from my fingers. That poor man. You ought to pay him more, Darcy.

"One day, Georgiana stormed in to the study at the London house, demanding that I snap out of it. I did not even recall the date. Apparently, I had missed her presentation at St. James'." William looked deeply mortified and coughed into his hand. "I hoped, rather than believed, that she forgave me. I had told her a month or so into the search for Elizabeth everything that had transpired, but I suppose even a most beloved younger sister has a limit on just how much she will take from her older, drunken brother.

"She informed me that with our Aunt Eleanor's assistance, she was making it through her first season and that she was, in fact, engaged to be married. She ignored my sputtering and informed me, in the firmest voice I have ever heard her use, that I was to get cleaned up and make myself ready to accept her suitor's request for an audience.

"I do not know how well I performed, but the man's sweet, stuttering appeal to my dark mood did something to me. Darcy, I had behaved a fool. I had neglected everything, everything I had ever held dear, and what had it gotten me? My pride? I resolved to move on, in action if not in heart.

"Georgiana married near the end of the season. A week after that, I went to Aunt Catherine and informed her that I was ready to wed Anne. I shan't go into any detail on either lady's response. It would seem that our cousin Anne has held a _tendre_ for us for quite some time, Darcy. As previously stated, she always knew that I loved another, but even my cold, dutiful affection was preferable to a Mother's smothering attentions.

"I say with abject shame that I did not see Annie at the altar next to me on our wedding day; I didn't see Elizabeth, either. I simply saw the altar, and the vicar, and the smug face of Aunt Catherine, and the weeping eyes of Georgiana, and the heartbroken expression on Jane Bingley's face. Me? I was all solemnity. I made a vow, and I kept it.

"Aunt Catherine was rendered even more smug and satisfied than was her wont when Annie became pregnant a few months after the wedding. Do not look at me so, Fitzwilliam! It does not signify. Nothing mattered. I had cleaned up at that point. I was no longer attached to anything; it was as though I were observing everything from afar, or perhaps reading it in a particularly distasteful book. _Fitzwilliam Darcy performs his duty: a boring collection of stories following the societal expectations of a gentleman_. Pemberley was safe, Georgiana was married. The only exciting thing to happen was when Kitty Bennet came to Pemberley for a visit and I was unable to look upon her for too long, for it would seem that Miss Catherine had grown into the very image of her sister Elizabeth. Not precisely, but I think you may remember enough of the girl to see that she had the same long, graceful neck, the same laughing mouth. The same tilt of the eye, the same prim 'ahem' when she is attempting to refrain from saying something impertinent. Perhaps I should have married Kitty. But no, she and Georgiana had a grand old time celebrating Christmas at Pemberley, and I took a page from Mr. Bennet's book and hid in the library the entire visit.

"Annie died that January," he said softly, and Darcy's mind, still reeling at the recent revelations, focused on one particular image he had of Anne hiding a smile behind a fragile-looking hand one evening when Elizabeth had challenged Aunt Catherine. "It was a quiet affair, both her death and the funeral. Her coffin was small; the babe's smaller. I named her Elizabeth Anne Darcy. No one dared contradict me. Aunt Catherine tried, but I shut her down with a fierce look into her eyes and a clenched fist at my side. I think that perhaps she _did_ love her daughter, for after Anne's death, she lost much of her ability to force her will upon anyone again.

"It was clear to me at that point that I was not destined for any sort of happiness whatsoever. I did not even make an attempt at it. One day, Caroline Bingley came over to 'bring me some much-needed cheer.' After an incessant, falsely cheerful bit of prattle, I interrupted her with a weary entreaty to stop, that I would marry her were she to simply stop. I am not at all sorry to say that her shocked silence was worth the resulting marriage.

"Once again, I found myself at the altar. Aunt Catherine, unsurprisingly, did not attend this one. Charles did, as did his Jane, the only person that I can seem to receive pitying looks from with any sort of equanimity. Caroline was everything that was correct and fashionable. I visited her bed, I believe… three times. No heir resulted. It did not matter. Georgiana had an heir, and all of it was to go to him, to young Fitzwilliam. I think even my sister sensed that I was to die alone and childless. Oh, not that Caroline died or left me. She simply is not a part of this. We lived separate lives from the beginning, which is, I'm sure, all that she ever wanted. She stayed in London or visited with the Hursts, and I remained at Pemberley." His flat affectation of the recitation of these events affected Darcy in a similar fashion; this part of the story was so repugnant to him that he did not waste one moment reflecting upon it.

"So I spent a year or so in maintaining the estate and my brandy habit. I was not constantly drunk nor was I constantly sober; I was simply constant. I rode the estate, saw to the tenants. Kept order. All for my nephew, who is a bit of a delight, I must say. Georgiana is a wonderful mother. Richard came to visit, but I fear that my lack of emotion whatsoever saddened him, and his visits became less frequent and of shorter duration. The same can be said for Bingley; I once overheard him and Jane arguing over whether to shorten their stay, but dear Jane insisted that I _needed_ them.

"And then…" and here, William's voice cracked. His hands shook as he poured himself more tea; Darcy's cup remained untouched. William swallowed the entire cup of now-cold tea; setting it down roughly, he resumed his narrative, his voice rough despite the refreshment.

"I remember how fine it was that day; the harvest was underway, the weather cool and brisk. I was on my way to seeing about repairs for the bridge on the edge of the property when I spied a rider, hell-bent on reaching the estate. I rushed over, my mind in a panic. Was Georgiana ill? Had something befallen my nephew? Was it Richard, or Bingley, or Jane? The faces of the only people who gave a damn about me paraded in my mind in time to the beats of my horse's hooves. With a feeling of abject dread, I rushed into the house. Reynolds came to me at once, her eyes full of worry (or, I should say, more worry than her normal expression the past few years). It occurred to me that it could be news of my wife, but I tore the seal on the letter anyway.

"I recognized the writing immediately; it was Jane's. I scanned it quickly, looking for 'Charles' or 'Frances' (did I tell you that they had two children?). It took several readings before I apprehended the meaning of the letter.

"Elizabeth had been found. Her sentences were few, but I could tell that Jane had no joy in the discovery. I reread the letter several times over, and during the trip to Hertfordshire, I would pull it out and read it again and again.

_Dear Mr. Darcy- _

_Please, I hope this letter finds you well. Some news regarding my sisters has come to light. I beg of you to travel to Hertfordshire at your earliest convenience. No need to make haste, sir, however- I should prefer to convey the intelligence to you in person. Charles has requested that you stay with us here at Netherfield, and I can think of nothing that would bring me greater comfort than for you to spend a few weeks here in Hertfordshire at our estate. Please inform us of your anticipated arrival date. I do look forward to your presence, sir. _

_Your friend, Jane Bingley._

Darcy, I tell you. I read that letter so many times, attempted to interpret Jane's wording in so many different ways. Surely, if it were good news, she would have said so? Surely, if Elizabeth were in trouble, she would have demanded I be there to help in whatever way I was able?

"I arrived on horseback, Walsh and my things well behind me in a carriage. I did not wait for a servant to attend to me, rudely barging in the already open door… when I stopped. Weeping, Fitzwilliam. The weeping that is unimaginable; the weeping of a woman with a broken heart. I say without joy that I finally realized I had been in error for years; my heart hadn't been dead when I married Anne, nor had it been dead when I married Caroline. It had simply been asleep. My heart woke up at the sound of Jane Bingley crying, and unfortunately, it began to die a moment later.

"I walked into the bright, sunny sitting room and saw Bingley embracing Jane, a look of pain contorting his features. In a daze, I entered the room. Before I realized it, Jane was embracing me, her wet face buried in my neck. 'She is gone, Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth is gone.'

"I do not know my reaction. I think I knew of Elizabeth's demise before I entered the house. The old sense of dread had returned, the one I had in those days when we were all looking for any sign of her or of Wickham. Eventually, Jane ceased crying and took my hands, leading me to a chair. She did not let go of me as she stilting told me that a letter had arrived from her Uncle Gardiner the previous week; you see, he had never ceased his search for Elizabeth, worthy man that he was.

"It seemed that Lydia was gone as well. No trace of Wickham was to be found except for a small boy who resembled him in stature and Elizabeth in countenance. Yes, Darcy! A child. A _bastard_. Bingley took me aside later and informed me that Wickham had most likely taken Elizabeth against her will and left her soon after. I can easily envision that she would have felt the disgrace of it; Mr. Gardiner and I spoke after that and he assured me that she most certainly would have done everything to keep the taint of scandal as far away from her family as possible. She died alone, Fitzwilliam! Alone and attempting to raise that villain's bastard!

"She named him Thomas Fitzwilliam Bennet. Can you imagine, Darcy? Wickham's bastard, named after me? I was both elated and disgusted. His son carrying my name… but she had named her son for _me_! In my most desperate hours, in the dark time when I am lying in bed and sleep refuses to claim me, I think of this. That there is a child in the world bearing my name and George Wickham's heritage, and that it could mean only one thing- Elizabeth Bennet had forgiven me, and perhaps had felt something for me. Let that serve as a reason for _you_ to wake in the morning. Somewhere, in some far-off future, Elizabeth Bennet _does_ care enough about you to do such a thing. She is not mean-spirited enough to have harbored any malicious intent in the action.

"So, there you have it. Elizabeth had been found; she had written a letter to her landlady that was to be sent to her uncle in the event of her death. She had been living in a room above a dress shop, working as a seamstress in a dreary section of town; I went and paid an exorbitant sum for the property and had it torn down. The plot of land stands empty to this day. I refuse to sell it. The landlady, a Mrs. Cole, informed me that Elizabeth had been chronically ill, consumptive. She often watched the boy when Elizabeth was feeling the effects of the disease most keenly; I paid her well for the information, as well as for the last thing Elizabeth had been working on- repairing a hole in the boy's well-worn coat. I wanted to keep it for him, for I intended to care for the boy as my own.

"Of course, Caroline would have none of it, but I shan't bore you with the details of her vituperative attack on the character of the boy's mother. I would have put my foot down, but Jane insisted that she be the one to raise the boy. She allowed me to set aside a generous sum for the child's education, and he came to call me 'Uncle Darcy'. He's a good sort of boy, exactly like his mother- kind, loyal, prone to mucking about in the mud.

"Before I knew any of this, however, I had to ask Jane about Elizabeth. I was numb, you see; denial and all that. We were still sitting in the drawing room at Netherfield. She looked up at Bingley and he nodded grimly. She stood and took my hand. 'Come. She- Lizzy has been taken to Longbourn.' I was startled, Darcy. She was- I could not bear it. How could I bear it?

"Before I knew it, I was unceremoniously shoved into a carriage and traveling down the well-known path from Netherfield to Longbourn. I vaguely recollected that Collins was now the master, having taken over a few short months after Mr. Bennet passed away. I remember wondering whether Mrs. Bennet was still alive, but I did not dwell on it.

"Next I remember, Jane was squeezing my hand as I helped her down from the carriage. Bingley stood a respectful distance away as we walked, her hand on my arm. Longbourn's burial area is well behind the main house, in a secluded but tidy bit of land sectioned off by a low wall of crumbling stone. I could see where her grave was- there were fresh flowers there, wildflowers of just the sort of variety that she would prefer. I- I could not go on. Jane had to pull my arm. It was as if she sensed I needed to see it, needed to see her name etched in that stone. I first saw Miss Lydia's grave marker; they had been buried one over from Mr. Bennet.

"I won't describe my feelings to you, Darcy. I don't need to. You look as I must have that day. No tears, no real expression, save for your eyes. And that is the thing of it. Right now, you look devoid of emotion. But you see, your normal look is of indifference, or perhaps _detachment_ is more accurate. Some call the look pride or arrogance, but it isn't, is it? No, you mask all of the inner turmoil that you've felt since the day your father died. All of the uncertainty that you're doing what is best, the millions of ways in which you question whether your actions shall have the intended good consequences. You hide your passionate nature, your inquisitiveness, your perpetual wonderment with all that the world has to offer. But most of all, you hide your _emotions_.

"But not now. Much like I was that day, you have nothing to hide. Can you sympathize with me for a moment, Fitzwilliam? _You_ have this reaction hearing about a death that occurs in the not-so-far future_. I_ had to live it, Fitzwilliam. I had to stand at the grave of the woman I was still hopelessly, torturously, and now fruitlessly in love with. The death of my heart was complete. I had nothing left to give.

"I stayed with Jane and Charles for weeks after that. The boy came to live with them, and I avoided him at first, but it would seem that he was fascinated by the man 'mamma had told him 'bout that he was named after'. Here I had a miniature Elizabeth in boy form, asking me questions about caterpillars and insisting I take long walks with him while listening with rapt attention to my descriptions of the Little Tyrant's adventures on the Continent. He had all the charm of his father with none of the wickedness. The sparkling set of eyes he inherited from his mother.

"He grew into a fine young man, eventually attending King's College and graduating with top marks. One day I received a letter from him, begging me to come to London on a matter of some urgency. I arrived, feeling old age and older regret; I had not been to town in years. I was not even sure as to the whereabouts of my wife, who was no doubt engaging in liaisons of an illicit nature. Not that I blame her. I'm afraid I took to bed with many a woman over the years; they were always dim replicas of Elizabeth. Oh, do not look at me so! What else was I to do, behave with decorum?

"It seemed that young Thomas was in love, with a lady far above him in station and far below him in manners. She was the jewel of the Season, well-dowered and beautiful, but cold and cutting. I cannot for the life of me understand why he was so taken with her. As I sat there in this very townhouse listening to his rhapsodic description of her virtues, I became weary with the telling. What was love, really? How would this end? Not well, surely. The boy was a part of my life. How could anything end well for him?

"I'm afraid I was not kind in my assessment of his situation. He stormed out of the house, vowing that he _would_ have her despite my loud objections. I laughed bitterly at his denouncing of my advice. And why should he listen to a bitter old man?

"I drank myself to a stupor. That night, I dreamt of _her_. For the first time in years. She was looking at me in that horrible way, judging me and finding me wanting, just as she had so long ago.

"And that's where we come to you. I awoke in my study. I decided to go for a walk against the protestations of Walsh and probably the rest of the staff. The rain caught me unawares. I fell to the ground, retched horribly. Shook my fist at the sky. Passed out. Awoke to your face.

"So there you have it." William sighed and fell back in his chair. Darcy did not know what to say. What was there _to_ say?

"I'm afraid the telling has left me rather fatigued, old boy," William said before Darcy could formulate a coherent response. Suddenly, a cough seized William, and Darcy rushed to his side, alarmed. William fell over muttering nonsensical words, and Darcy called out for help. Several footmen and Walsh arrived to assist the men, and they had William up and to his room immediately.

Once he was put to bed and Mr. Townsend was called for, Darcy wearily made his way to his own bed. He fell to sleep and did not wake until the following morning.

**thanks, guys, so so so much for your thoughts and comments. some of the stuff you say is so kind that I get all :') :') :'), and that's quite a feat considering that I'm cold and dead inside.**


	8. Chapter 8

**i know, i know! please accept my sincerest apologies. my router was dying a slow, agonizing death, leaving my internet access questionable at best. i have a new shiny apple airport thingamajigger now, so all is well.**

"I would imagine you have questions for me," William began some two or three days after he had fallen ill. It had taken days for him to waken and more days after that for him to be able to sit up in bed, causing Darcy much worry. It seemed that his… cousin's health was in question, but any time he attempted to suggest this to the gentleman, his efforts were given a frown and an imperious wave of his hand. "Tosh," he would say. Darcy privately wondered if the man was suffering from an infirmity related to imbibing less alcohol than had been his wont, or if it was perhaps related to the fact that he had, in fact, traveled backward in time.

It felt satisfying to Darcy to admit this to himself. Before him was his future self. The man was not making up the story. He knew too many details about Darcy's life, was much too privy as to Darcy's thoughts and private musings.

_Or, perhaps_, he thought to himself with a grim smile as he sat at the man's bedside, once again, _I ought to not read tales of fiction as often as I do_.

"Do stop analyzing my words with private bouts of thought, Darcy. It is rather tiresome. Honestly, I am beginning to understand why so many people thought me an arrogant prig," William said with a sardonic smile. Darcy merely smiled serenely at his guest.

"Indeed, sir. I- you are well, are you not?" Darcy's mind raced over the events as told by William; it was as though he himself had lived them, so vividly had they been encroaching on his thoughts since the telling. Miss Bennet crying, Bingley's grim expression, Wickham's derisive laughter, and Elizabeth, always Elizabeth, in various stages of emotion. First, her sweet laughter, forever pointed at any but himself; her laughter dying down as she met his intent stare. Her eyebrow challenging him, judging him; her other eyebrow joining its twin in a frown as her expression changed to one of shocked outrage, her face contorted in pain. Tears, tears from her eyes as an all-consuming and horrible cough seized her body, causing her to fall… and then a boy, faceless, with dark, untamed hair and a laugh that managed to pierce his chest with its sweet joy.

All this in a mere moment; Darcy had to shake his head to remove the thoughts riffling through his head like a thumb running over pages in a well-beloved book. If these images were, indeed, his future, then he would endeavor to change his fortune!

"Dammit, Darcy. Cease these infernal inquiries to my health! What matters a mere cough when Elizabeth's life is at stake!" Darcy was shaken as the man doubled over in a fit of hacking gasps; it was exactly like his father's final days.

This would not do.

"All is well, William," he said softly, patting the man's back and reaching for water. Never in his life had he so attended the sickbed of an invalid, not even his father's. He waited for the fit to subside before speaking.

"I should wonder- what you think of this situation."

"What I think of the situation," William said weakly, shaking his head in exasperation. "Darcy. Is it not obvious? We must change your future!"

"My thoughts precisely, sir," Darcy said with some amusement. "However… how shall we go about accomplishing this?" William regarded him with a wary eye before answering.

"That's simple enough. We must go to Hertfordshire and make love to Elizabeth!"

"Sir, I do not think-"

"Time is of the essence, do you not understand? It all hinges on good timing, Darcy. You have wasted enough already. This prattling about, inquiring into my health and attending to your affairs. Stop that! Stop it at once. You've more important things to be getting on with. Good God, man! Do you wish to spend your days wed to Caroline Bingley?" William was livid, his face flushed. Darcy could not help it. He began to laugh.

After a minute or so of William looking to Darcy as if he were bound for Bedlam, he finally crossed his arms across his chest and demanded to know what, pray tell, Darcy could possibly find to be so funny.

"Sir, I- I am sorry. But Caroline Bingley? Yes, that is what I wish to inquire after. What were you thinking when you married Miss Bingley?" Darcy attempted to remain calm, but he felt another laughing fit to be forthcoming. Honestly, of all of the incredible things William had told him of his future, that one seemed to be the least likely.

"I do not appreciate the levity, Fitzwilliam, and I'll thank you to stop it at once. Now. Have you seen to a carriage yet? Walsh!" With a start, Darcy realized that the voice and intonation was indistinguishable from his own as Walsh appeared at the door a moment later, looking his usual unruffled self, intent on carrying out his master's bidding. Darcy decided that despite his cousin's less-than-desirable health that to tarry on in London would be unwise, indeed. Deciding that to leave immediately was perhaps imprudent, Darcy quickly concocted a plan to get them to Netherfield as quickly as could be managed.

"Walsh, we travel for Hertfordshire in _three_ day's time." Walsh accepted this without a change of expression, merely nodding his head once and pivoting abruptly to carry out his master's bidding.

"There. Now, you rest and think of exactly how I am to pay court to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Or, better yet," Darcy said, standing and turning to go, "how I am to convince her to remain in Hertfordshire. By my count, she will be leaving for the North with her Aunt and Uncle soon, if your memories of so long ago are accurate." He had plans to set in motion, and while unsure of the details, he knew one item was in order. Leaving his cousin to rest, he left for Bingley's, hoping to convince his good friend that they needed some sport in the country.

Later that day Darcy awaited his friend's arrival; he had managed to talk Bingley into traveling without actually requesting that he do so. Bingley, in his usual manner, had smiled at Darcy and inquired after his health, appearing attentive and jovial as was his wont, but Darcy knew better. He had never seen his friend in such a sad state and was rather shocked at the redness of his eyes and the seemingly listless drag to his limbs. Bingley had always been a man of sweeping arm gestures and grandiose statements of being pleased with all around him; now, however, that was not the case. It occurred to Darcy that he had not seen Charles since before his annual trip to Rosings; with much regret, he nearly confessed all to his second oldest and most constant friend, but a deep voice within warned him that to do so may not end well.

So Darcy had spoken of how _ennui_ was overtaking him, that Town was less amusing than usual, and that he wished for a change of pace and considered returning to Pemberley earlier than planned. Bingley had perked at this and immediately suggested sporting at his estate, but then hastily withdrew the offer, shifting his suddenly eager gaze to the floor. Pangs of guilt washed over Darcy, and he reached over to reassure his friend, patting his arm.

"Perhaps," Darcy gently murmured, "returning to Netherfield would be for the best." He then gave Bingley a significant look, and it pained him how much Bingley's countenance brightened at Darcy's words. Truly, it was the largest injustice of the world that those most deserving of true happiness achieved it with such little provocation.

"Do you… do you believe so, Darcy? But I thought you-"

"My friend," Darcy said heavily, leaning back in his chair and succumbing to the urge to rub his forehead, "it has recently been brought to my attention that the difference between what I think and what is true is rather vast. You are unhappy, Charles." Darcy's voice dropped to a whisper. "I wish you to be happy. And I believe that Miss Jane Bennet would make you happy."

Then Bingley's smile overtook his face and it was as the sun shifting from behind a cloud. His countenance burned red and his sputtering was so endearing, so _Bingley_, that Darcy could do naught but be cheered at the sight. _Well, there's one of us seen to,_ he thought wryly.

With that, plans were made for the two to travel to Hertfordshire, Bingley immediately sending off a note to the country to ready the estate. Darcy invited his friend for billiards and perhaps a jaunt to the Club, accepting Bingley's hearty handshake with a small smile.

Later, when he heard the resounding knock at his door, he straightened his cravat and made his way to the billiards room. He turned at the sound of brisk footsteps and was startled to see his _actual_ cousin at the doorway rather than his friend.

"Fitz, I'm glad to find you home. Listen," Richard began, then he stopped abruptly, peering at Darcy with a quizzical expression. "I say, you seem… what is the word? I won't say 'cheerful,' because honestly. Who would ever call you cheerful? Nay, perhaps 'satisfied.' Yes, that is- Darcy! Have you gotten- err, have you seen to- Listen, I'm glad. I've told you a thousand times if I've told you twice that you ought not let those urges build inside you, and visiting a House or a widow and engaging in discreet liaisons is not as bad as you continue to preach at me, so I'm glad that you're finally getting in a good fu-"

"Richard. Desist, I beg of you." Darcy held out a hand and took a step back, unable to suppress the perpetual grin he wore his cousin was in the room. Always one to speak exactly one word too far, Darcy enjoyed stopping him before he overstepped the bounds of propriety whether it was merely the two of them or in a room full of spinster aunts. Despite his overly eager manner of speech and forthright attitude, Richard was one of Darcy's favorite people in the world, and his presence suddenly seemed to make him feel much better, like perhaps all of the impossible things happening about him would come out well in the end. On an impulse, he invited his cousin to accompany him and Charles to Hertfordshire.

"Hertfordshire! Why, is that not where the delightful and delectable Miss Elizabeth Bennet resides? But certainly, I would dearly wish to see her again. Does she not have sisters? Wait, _wait_. Cousin. I thought you had seen to Bingley's infatuation with the beautiful and distant Miss Jane Bennet. What are you about? Are you chasing Miss Elizabeth? After you asked me to be truthful should she ask about Georgiana, I had my suspicions… Come, come. I demand to have my share of the conversation." Richard's spot-on imitation of their aunt was ever accurate and ever amusing, so Darcy laughed and reached behind him, grasping a cue and tossing it in his cousin's direction.

"I am not _chasing_ Miss Elizabeth, Richard. Like I told you a month ago, she simply needed clarification as to the character of our former friend. Miss Elizabeth Bennet," and he gulped before continuing, "certainly does not desire any suit, much less mine. As I told you before. No, Bingley and I have decided that Town is tiresome and sport is very much in order. I figured you would like some respite from the dreariness of Town as well, but if you do not wish to accompany us, I can certainly see how attending your father's errands could be a better use of-"

"Oh, do shut up, Fitzie. Rack 'em, if you would be so kind." Rolling his eyes at the hated nickname, Darcy walked to the equipment table, smiling to himself as he gathered the triangle. He could not help it; his cousin really did possess the knack of bettering his mood.

After soundly beating him, the knocker was heard once again. The quick footsteps of Bingley soon followed, and the three gentlemen found themselves enjoying their evening in little time. Drinks were passed around, and a rather amusing re-telling of the time the three of them had found themselves in a gaming hall and "up Shite Creek with nary a paddle" (Richard's words, of course) was interrupted by a quiet "ahem" from the door. Three faces turned, one of them turning red with consternation and two bearing looks of confusion.

"I see that I am interrupting a rather sporting evening," William said, standing in the doorway with an arm behind his back and his chin turned up. Darcy was at a loss as how to best proceed with introductions when Richard finally spoke.

"I say, sir, we are not acquainted, but I'll be damned if you're not the spitting image of my Uncle Darcy. How do you do? I'm Richard Fitzwilliam, that one's cousin," Richard said, chucking his chin in Darcy's direction. "Are we related, sir? For there is no doubt that you share relations with my cousin here. Darcy, how did you come to not inform me that family was in town? And unknown family, too! I'll be damned, Darcy, your infamous reticence at sharing information has infrequently included me, but-"

"Richard, Charles," Darcy interrupted before his cousin could continue, "I'd like to introduce you to a heretofore unknown Darcy. My cousin, William, lately of America. Pennsylvania, did you say, cousin?" Darcy fixed him with a meaningful glance, trying hard to ignore William's obviously delighted countenance. He prayed that the man would not reveal anything of the truth, no matter how insignificant. Things were confusing enough without making the astute Richard suspicious.

"Virginia, Fitzwilliam. As if I would consort with those uppity Northerners!" William laughed. Richard clapped in delight and stepped forward, grasping the gentleman's hand in a firm shake, and Bingley smiled broadly.

"Well, there is no doubt that the two of you are related. Charles Bingley, at your service, sir," Charles grinned. Darcy shook his head at Charles' ever-present ability to make friends wherever he went. William smiled, stepping into the room and seating himself by the table.

"I'm afraid my current state of health does not allow for standing, so I shall simply sit here and absorb the youth of the room," William said when invited to join the others in their game. Darcy noticed frequent furtive glances from both Richard and Charles from William to himself but made no comment. _Let them come to whatever conclusions they wish._

After answering Richard's questions on his origins and plans, William's eyebrows rose when informed that the three of them left for Hertfordshire in the morning.

"Hertfordshire? I'm sure I've never been. I barely know England anymore. Might I accompany you? I should dearly love some sport," he said, directing his question at Richard, surely knowing that Darcy would protest. Darcy had not been planning on allowing William to join him. He was not certain why, but he felt that under the circumstances, bringing him along would serve to confuse him more than his current state.

"Certainly!" Richard exclaimed. "Why would you not? And a merry party we'll be. Tell me, New Cousin. Has Fitzie here told you of the lovely Misses Bennet?" His face cracked into a broad grin, his eyes daring a glance at Darcy's sudden glower.

"The Misses Bennet? Why, no. What of them? Are they the reason for this trip?" William's wicked smile was too much. Darcy frowned in consternation, missing an easy shot and losing the game in play. The rest of the evening was spent with Richard's gentle teasing (Darcy was no longer sure that his cousin was not on to him regarding his feelings for Miss Elizabeth Bennet), Bingley's renewed joviality, and William's eyes, beaming with the zeal that Darcy now knew was for Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet alone.

_Dearest Little One-_

_I hope this letter finds you well and in good cheer. Has your cold improved at all? I was sorry to read that you were unable to shake the tradition of catching a late spring fever, and were it not for a rather serious affair keeping me in town, I would have rushed home immediately. Mrs. Reynolds informed me by way of Kenneth that you are much improved and was of the opinion that my hasty return to P. was unnecessary; ought I to have come? I fear that I have not been doing my duty to you of late, and for that I must offer the only apology I can give- that of a repentant, sincere brother._

_By the time this letter reaches you, I shall be back in Hertfordshire, the county in which Mr Bingley has leased an estate. Surely you remember my telling you of Netherfield and its surrounding environs? Our cousin the Colonel has joined our party in addition to a gentleman that would best be explained in person._

_With that mysterious piece of information, I shall now exert my brotherly prerogative and insist that you join us here in Hertfordshire. There are no ladies in our party (receive this information as it was intended- with relief, my sweetling!), but I feel that perhaps you would not find yourself closeted away. Bingley insists, and I rather agree, that you need not feel obligated to act as hostess. Do you not think we shall be a merry party?_

_There are many pleasant people in this county and several ladies that I should not find it a punishment to introduce you to should you wish it to be so. There, now- your brother is doing his best to refrain from begging a beloved sister to join him for some light entertainment, neglecting to mention that our cousin Fitzwilliam's constant teasing could perhaps be focused on you than solely on myself. You see? I am not so much the doting brother as a selfish creature who wishes for a little reprieve._

_Come join us, Georgiana; I find that I have been missing your company and wish to make amends for my dour mood of late. Do not say you had not noticed; I know that you are too kind and sweet-tempered to point it out, so allow me to do so for the both of us._

_Richard is on his way as I write this; I anticipated your positive answer and find that I do not wish to wait for your response. Perhaps that is officious of me, and I find that I have no excuse except that I have recently been to Rosings. Forgive me, dearest?_

_Your brother_

_-F._

The party minus one arrived in Netherfield on a bright day. The sun was beaming with its usual summer force, making the road dry and quite dusty. They were received with some fanfare, Bingley's missive to ready the estate for the eminent arrival causing some consternation among the servants. Darcy was certain that the news that Netherfield was to be re-opened had already reached every peak and valley between there and Meryton and back twice again. Darcy had instructed Richard not to say a word regarding their newfound cousin until he had had a chance to speak to Georgiana in person. He hoped more than wished that the talkative Colonel would adhere to his request.

It was evident to Darcy (and most likely to William as well) that Bingley was most anxious to make his presence known to a particular household, but Darcy encouraged him to at least order a change of clothes before announcing himself to the neighborhood. With a silly half-grin Bingley nodded and dashed off to attend to his toilette.

"Netherfield," William murmured under his breath, turning about and regarding the surroundings with a look of bemused wonder. "You know, Darcy, I have not been here since…" A pained expression appeared across his brow, and Darcy knew not how to react. He was still uncertain that having the gentleman there at all was in the interest of those concerned, but he knew for certain that insisting that William had remained in town was a futile gesture. The Darcy men were, after all, notoriously stubborn once fixed upon an idea.

Despite the fact that he was suppressing every inclination to rush off to Longbourn and ascertain for himself whether Miss Elizabeth was in residence and safe, Darcy managed to convince Bingley that to hasten anywhere so soon after arriving was imprudent. The three men found themselves in the sitting room, ignoring refreshments being set out by the servants. Darcy nodded polite thanks and leaned farther back into his chair, his hand pressing into his lips. Everything had happened so quickly; was it not three days ago that he was in London, trying to formulate a sound plan? Was it not three or four weeks ago that he had never had any inkling what his fate could be?

_It is enough to drive a man mad_, he thought with little humor. Then chuckling to himself, he looked up to meet the eyes of his… of William.

That man quickly looked away and rose, silently walking to a window. Darcy could imagine that he was looking for any sign of a visitor, come perhaps at the news that Netherfield was occupied once again. With annoyance, he realized that he wished _he_ had been the one to stand at the window and then laughed. To be jealous of one's own self!

"Oh, stuff it," he muttered, standing abruptly. "Come, Bingley. I'm sure you are simply chomping at the bit to be on your way. Let's for Longbourn, shall we?" Darcy couldn't help returning Bingley's wide grin.

"Shall we go by horseback, then?" William's voice called across the room, and Darcy stopped midstride.

This would not do.

"Cousin, I thought to make our presence known… that is, I thought that just Bingley and myself ought to…" But his voice died at both William's darkly furious look and Bingley's confused one.

"Why should he not join us, Darce? After all, would it not be great fun to set the tongues wagging that not only have we returned, but that there are other dour Darcys to be met?" Bingley, as he often did, was attempting to lighten the suddenly dark situation he found himself to be in the middle of, despite the fact that he knew not what was transpiring.

"I… I simply feel that my cousin's health should require another day or so before he exerts himself overmuch," Darcy said after a pause, finishing with a lame, apologetic smile in William's direction. _Besides, I do not wish to see the look on your face when you see her again after twenty years' time. I cannot abide being jealous of myself over and over again!_

Bingley immediately jumped to William's aid, but he was cut off. "No, no, Charles; Fitzwilliam is correct. I _am_ feeling a bit tired." Darcy turned his head to the side, suspicious, but he could find no subterfuge in William's suddenly wan appearance. Nodding once, he called for a servant to show his cousin to his rooms and the two younger gentlemen left for the stables.

xx xx xx xx xx

**ngl, i really love colonel fitzwilliam. **


	9. Chapter 9

_**The "Bard-ly" descriptions belong to Mr W. Shakespeare.**_

As the two of them led their horses around a curve in the path to Longbourn, Darcy's heart thumped with dread. He saw a fluttering at a front window- was that a flurry of dark hair? Was it _her_? _How am I to act?_ he thought anxiously. _It has been but a month since she- will she ever look at me? What must she think of me? Did that damned letter change her opinion?_ Suddenly, the uncertainty he had felt in the immediate aftermath of his proposal poured out, making his breathing uneven. His eyes closed as he trusted his horse to follow Bingley's until they reached the front of Longbourn.

As they dismounted, a pair of young boys rushed from the direction of Longbourn's stable and Darcy handed the reins over to a small, freckled boy that he vaguely remembered from the last time he had been in Hertfordshire. Taking several deep, steadying breaths, he followed Bingley up the steps and waited for the housekeeper to answer the door.

_Steady_, he told himself, pausing outside the entrance to the sitting room. _Please be at home, please be at home,_ he chanted to himself, and before he knew it, they were being led in. Mr. Charles Bingley, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. _Bow, not too low. Do not cringe as Mrs. Bennet's- there it is, that high-pitched keen. Would be pleasant enough would she but learn to modulate her tone. Greet the ladies, Charles. Bow, not too low. Is she- she is here, she is here, she is here._

"Mrs. Bennet, I do apologize for our sudden appearance, but we just returned, you see, and-"

"My dear Mr. Bingley! Oh, but you are always welcome here! And your friend as well." Darcy noted with amusement that Mrs. Bennet's displeased gaze upon meeting his eye rivaled that of his aunt when she was in high dudgeon. How he would relish the event should the two of them ever meet!

Darcy suppressed a grimace as he bore the silly (yet understandable, he had to admit) flailing of Mrs. Bennet, so pleased was she to see Bingley returned to the country. In point of fact, he welcomed any distraction from the errant pounding of his heart. The lady invited them to sit and he glanced around, frantically trying to locate whether there was a spot near enough to Elizabeth that he could observe her yet not so close as to make her (or him) uncomfortable. He could not meet her eye, did not wish to meet her eye. He felt ill-equipped for the task despite all of his mental preparations.

It seemed to be by design that there was an available seat next to Miss Bennet and Bingley sat, flipping the tails of his coat with a flourish. With both frustration and relief, Darcy noted that Elizabeth was surrounded by her two youngest sisters and instead seated himself opposite the two fair-haired people looking at each other with shy enthusiasm.

He realized that it was time for his plan to take effective action- he would need to engage others in conversation. Steeling himself, he prepared to ask Mrs. Bennet whether they had been enjoying pleasant weather when one of the younger sisters (Miss Catherine?) rushed to the window.

"There is someone coming! Again!" she exclaimed, pulling aside the lacy curtain. The youngest- Lydia- rushed to her sister's side while everyone else in the room looked up in varying degrees of alarm. Darcy's ears buzzed with premonition_; it could not. He dare not._

"Well, girl. Do not keep us in suspense. Who is it?" Mrs. Bennet's piercing voice made Darcy's neck tense and it was all he could do to prevent his teeth from grinding. _Honestly, woman_! Again, his mind compared the lady's high-pitched keen to that of his Aunt Catherine's surly monotone and he grinned to himself.

"I- I-" Kitty and Lydia exchanged confused looks and in unison turned toward Darcy. Feeling both disgust and anxiety, he turned with the rest of the party as the housekeeper appeared in the doorway.

"Mr. William Darcy."

Darcy chanced a look at the ladies (but not _her_) and was thoroughly amused at their stunned faces; he then fixed his _cousin_ with a glower. Standing abruptly, he walked forward to stand next to William, turning to face the company.

"Mrs. Bennet, my apologies. I had thought that my cousin was to stay at the house." He resisted the urge to kick the man in the shins. "May I present my cousin, Mr. William Darcy, lately of America." He introduced the ladies and each curtsied. He noted the looks of astonishment on all present and Bingley's look of abject delight.

"Sir, I had not realized you had a cousin. It is no doubt that you are related, the family resemblance is strong, is it not! But how delightful! Will you be staying in the country long? America! Oh, but you have journeyed far. Do you have an estate there? Is _Mrs_. Darcy with you? Oh, oh, were that Mr. Bennet were here to greet you, but he is locked away in his study. Kitty! Go and fetch your father! Oh, oh, but this is such a surprise!" The three men present all appeared amused, even Darcy. Were he not so annoyed with William's sudden and unwanted appearance, he did believe he might actually smile.

While Miss Catherine went off to search for her father, Darcy took the liberty to steer his cousin to his abandoned seat, whispering furiously into his ear, "What are you doing here?"

"Such a delight, Mrs. Bennet!" William said loudly, pointedly ignoring Darcy's question and turning to the still flustered lady. "I had heard that your daughters were the most beautiful girls in the south of England, and I am pleased that it was not a gross exaggeration. But the apples do not fall far from the tree, if I may be so bold." He leaned forward with an elbow on his knee and winked at the lady. Such presumption!

Mrs. Bennet blushed and stammered, and Darcy took that moment to fully gaze upon Elizabeth for the first time since entering the room. _Does she appear pale? She is not sick, is she? Still so beautiful._ He noted with delight that her eyebrows were arched high on her forehead and a delicate half-smile appeared on her face. He sighed inwardly.

He found that William was still speaking. "…But then, Darcy here _did_ inform me that you set the best table he had ever attended outside his own homes, so I had to see for myself the goings-on at Longbourn. My curiosity simply would not be repressed." Darcy startled as all eyes turned toward him; Bingley's face was without price, his look of shock was that extreme. Elizabeth's eyebrows arched even higher than they had been at William's extreme raillery toward her mother.

"Come now, Darcy," Bingley began, his voice brighter than it had been in months, and he realized that there was a direct relationship toward that man's general good mood and the proximity of Miss Jane Bennet. Bingley's face screwed up in momentary confusion as he glanced at William, then back to Darcy. "Err, Fitzwilliam Darcy, of course. Tell the ladies all about your newfound relation." For a moment, Darcy was confused, so focused had he been on surreptitiously studying Elizabeth Bennet; he realized that an answer was required and that perhaps this- his tendency to pause and gather his thoughts- was the reason society often found him disagreeable and arrogant. Attempting to appear more neutral, he cleared his throat before speaking; although he spoke toward a corner of the room and tried very hard not to stare at her, all of his words were directed at Elizabeth Bennet.

"My- he is my father's cousin. Or, rather, his son William. He moved to America after his father's death. William here has recollections of meeting my father as a child, but I had never heard of him until he appeared in London several weeks ago. Had he not reminded me so much of my own father, I daresay I would doubt the relation. It was a… shock to meet him the first time." _At least that part was true_, he thought to himself. How he abhorred deception in any form, especially when _she_ was the one being deceived!

"How extraordinary," Elizabeth murmured, and for the first time, their eyes met. A jolt, a delicious feeling of light swept through him. They held each other's gaze for a moment longer than necessary before she turned toward the window. _Was that a flush of pink? How wonderful she looks_. Previously, he had seen her flush in anger, in shock; in furious pride. Never in- dare he think it- _pleasure_. At least he thought it was pleasure_. How frustrating to not know her thoughts! _Once he had been so certain. _Such arrogance_! He would give his much talked-of (comically underestimated) ten thousand a year to know what she was feeling toward him at that very moment. Was she mortified to be in his presence? Did she regret refusing him? Had her opinion altered even a little? All these thoughts swirled about him, muddling him, his elation at being merely feet away from her and his dread that she could possibly not wish him there nearly overtaking his senses. He realized with much embarrassment that his inattention had caused a lapse in conversation when William elbowed his arm.

"Darcy?" he said, amusement plain in his voice. _Well, it would not be the first time you were caught staring at Miss Elizabeth Bennet_, he thought .

"Forgive me, I was not attending."

"Indeed," William murmured. "Mrs. Bennet has invited us to dine and Bingley here says that he has no objections; what say you?" Darcy risked a glance at Elizabeth and noted with a pang that her expression was neutral; did she not wish for him to stay? Should he not stay? Perhaps they should not stay. He could always return on the morrow.

A ghostly image of Elizabeth in pain, Elizabeth in distress; the imagined, future Elizabeth in peril, and that decided it. Trying his best to arrange his features into the most pleasant version of themselves, he smiled and said, "I think that is a splendid idea."

The call to dinner saw the emergence of their host. Mr. Bennet had not answered Kitty's plea to satisfy her mother and join the party in the sitting room, so it was with great pleasure that Mrs. Bennet berated her husband.

"Oh, Mr. Bennet. How you delight in vexing me! Did Kitty not inform you that we had guests, and that one was a gentleman unknown to you? Here, you see, are Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy- you remember _him_, dear- and Mr. Darcy's cousin! Is it not extraordinary? Apparently," and here her voice softened in tone if not in volume, "he was unknown to _our_ Mr. Darcy." He smiled to himself- _our Mr. Darcy_. When had the lady's visible distaste for him softened?

"Really? Mr. Darcy, a pleasure. Bingley, Darcy, good to see you again. I trust it was err, the fine birds that brought you back to Hertfordshire?" He glanced pointedly at his two eldest daughters. Both the younger gentlemen flushed at this while William laughed heartily, and Elizabeth rushed to her father's side, whispering furiously into his ear as they walked arm-in-arm toward the dinner table.

Darcy found himself seated across from William and in between Jane and Catherine. Elizabeth was directly across from him, just to William's left, and he had to wonder at the seating arrangements. The avaricious Mrs. Bennet must have planned it this way.

_What if she thinks to have William for Elizabeth?_ Oh, it was too distressing to dwell on.

Trying to come up with something to say, Darcy made several attempts at starting a conversation, but Catherine was fussing with the napkin in her lap and whispering with Lydia. Jane was engrossed in whatever Bingley was saying. With a heavy sigh, he slowly picked up his spoon and leaned in, smiling at the wonderful smell of the soup before him. William had not been embellishing; Mrs. Bennet certainly did serve a fine table.

Rather than exerting himself making small talk that he was sure would not be attended, he focused on trying to hear what it was that William was saying that could make Elizabeth smile with such serene beauty.

He only realized he had been craning his neck forward when he had to swiftly turn his head; Jane had softly inquired after him, but he unfortunately did not hear what she had said.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet; my mind was elsewhere. What was it that you asked of me?"

"I- I was wondering about the other Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy," Jane said, appearing momentarily flummoxed at the double appellation and then smiling softly in amusement. Remembering William's warm regard toward the lady, he smiled in return and decided to attempt putting his next plan into action once again- that of seeming pleasanter to those around him.

"I shouldn't wonder at your curiosity, Miss Bennet. Is it not extraordinary? I have a cousin of which I was unaware," he began, hoping his voice was warm and engaging. He soon forgot that he had been trying to spy on William's conversation with Elizabeth as he told her sister, albeit briefly, how his cousin came to find him.

"So you are to see him settled in London? But how generous of you, Mr. Darcy!" Jane exclaimed, and he noticed for the first time the sincerity in her expression, that there was true warmth and approval in her eyes. He was momentarily taken aback before chiding himself that not all ladies said things simply to gain his approval.

_How wrong I have been regarding Miss Bennet_, he thought, chastising himself once again for his past presumption.

"Oh, but you _are_ generous, Mr. Darcy! And how wonderful for you, Mr. Darcy! Oh, but so many Darcys. Oh, it is vexing, indeed!" It appeared that Mrs. Bennet had been listening in on the conversation from down the table.

"I daresay we shall have to bear the vexatious number of Darcys with equanimity, my dear," Mr. Bennet said, saluting her across the table with his soup spoon. Darcy would have found the man's lack of respect toward his wife disturbing had it not all been so comical. He smiled briefly before addressing the table at large, focusing his gaze on his soup spoon and hoping that he was not disrupting the flow of general conversation.

"Ah, quite right, Mr. Bennet. In fact, I'm afraid I shall be adding another Darcy to your acquaintance soon enough. I do apologize, I- that is, I hope it is not too much to ask that I bring my sister Georgiana around? My other cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, is currently accompanying her from Pemberley." At the mention of Georgiana he noticed that Elizabeth's head snapped in his direction. Ignoring the renewed whispering about "A colonel!" from more than one lady present and pushing down the jealous flames licking at his throat when Elizabeth smiled at the mention of Richard's name, he returned her smile. "Georgiana is quite anxious to make your acquaintance in particular, Miss Elizabeth. And the Colonel expressed his desire to be in your company once again."

"Miss… Miss Georgiana wants to meet _me_ in particular?" she asked softly, her eyes meeting his, and it was extraordinary. Quite astonishing, really, the ability of one glance to blur the periphery; the surge of sentiment that flowed through his body, veins suffusing with warmth, heart beating that much faster. The people around were mere impressions, the candles dimmed the room, the smells of dinner and the sounds of silver clinking against porcelain all muted, all ignored, all unimportant. It was her, it was him, it was a bright light, a shimmering moment, no breath drawn, no words uttered. A passing thing, a mere half-second in the span of time, yet time immortal and time immeasurable.

God, how he loved her desperately.

He blinked, breaking the spell they both seemed to be under, and he glanced around the table. Only William seemed to have noticed, and he smiled in triumph. Ignoring that gentleman's pointed looks, he again addressed Miss Elizabeth.

"Err, yes. It would seem that our cousin Fitzwilliam explained to her in great detail 'the young lady who spoke her mind to Aunt Catherine and was liked all the better for it.' You see, Miss Elizabeth, my sister is a soft-spoken, quiet sort of girl, and the thought of challenging our Aunt quite shocked and delighted her," he said. He chuckled thinking of the letter he had received from Georgiana expressing that exact thought, and his chuckle turned into a broad grin. When he looked up again it was to see a stunned look on Elizabeth's face. Wondering what could have garnered such a reaction, he was about to continue but had forgotten what he wanted to say.

"Yes, yes, it all sounds wonderful. Are we to be flooded by all the Darcys of Derbyshire, I wonder?" Mr. Bennet said aloud, tapping his mouth with his fork.

"Papa," Elizabeth hissed, but Darcy chose not to be offended by the man's impudent remarks. It was evident that Mr. Bennet was the sort of man who enjoyed the foibles of the human condition, and while he could certainly sympathize, he was not one to make sport in such a manner. It was of little importance, at any rate; through Elizabeth's silent gaze of disapproval he saw exasperated affection, and if she loved her father, then he would, too.

"Do not trouble yourself, Miss Elizabeth," Darcy said quietly. His voice growing firmer with resolve, he then addressed her father. "I'm afraid you really will be flooded by all the remaining Darcys in England, sir, and a Fitzwilliam to boot. Perhaps the garrulous nature of my Fitzwilliam cousin will cancel out the shy arrogance of the Darcy party." He then calmly speared a _viande_ with his fork, praying that his pert tone had not offended.

There was a momentary lull in the conversation at the table and when he looked up, Darcy noted with alarm that all eyes were locked on him. Elizabeth appeared mortified, Bingley's eyes the size of saucers. William was shaking his head in amazement. Then, from Mr. Bennet's end of the table, a soft chuckle gave rise to loud merriment. Darcy glanced from the corner of his eyes and indeed, the gentleman was laughing with glee.

"Well, this is capital! Mr. Darcy, I'd no idea you could be so charmingly self-deprecating. Still waters run deep, eh?" In the past, Darcy would have bristled at the comment, but he could see that Mr. Bennet truly did not wish to offend. He was merely speaking his mind, and Darcy could respect that.

Darcy bowed his head gravely while resisting the smile pulling at the corner of his lips; a salute of sorts, and before fully tucking in to finish the rest of the excellent repast, he sneaked a glance at Elizabeth. She seemed to be appraising him, and he certainly hoped he was not found wanting. Not this time.

It had not occurred to Darcy throughout the meal that the separation of the sexes after dinner would mean not only spending time without Elizabeth in the room, but spending more time with her father. He both dreaded and anticipated the event as he was led into Mr. Bennet's study; dreaded because honestly, who would be able to ascertain what was to come from the man's mouth next? Anticipated because he looked upon it as an opportunity to continue improving the opinion of those around him. An idea had been playing out in his head regarding whether he ought warn Mr. Bennet as to the vicious character of his former friend, but he had not fleshed out any sort of plan in detail. He was not entirely certain that the intelligence would be ignored, at any rate. _Later; there would be time later_.

"Mr. Bennet, if I may. I have some excellent cigars that I procured whilst in London," William said upon entering and being invited to sit. Darcy wondered where he had procured such a thing as he himself did not particularly enjoy the pastime, but in the name of exerting himself, he primly selected a smallish cheroot-looking thing and attempted to look urbane while balancing it between his thumb and forefinger.

Mr. Bennet poured out a measure of brandy in a glass and handed it to William, then followed suit with the younger gentlemen. Raising his glass, he solemnly declared, "To many a fine bird, gentlemen!"

"Many a fine bird," Darcy murmured, taking a sip. He noted with chagrin that William knocked the entire thing down with a practiced flick of his wrist. Bingley grinned happily, taking a gulp and turning his head to the side.

"Nice and dry, this one. Not as sweet as I'm used to. Is this from town, sir?" Bingley took another sip and shook his head. Darcy, too, had noted the mellow, somewhat smoky flavor.

"If I'm not much mistaken," William said, "this would be an extremely fine cognac."

"Cognac!" Bingley exclaimed, looking suddenly impressed. "I'm sure I've never tasted it. However did you-"

Mr. Bennet looked rather proud of himself. "Now, Mr. Bingley. Were I to tell you, then surely you would know. 'Tis a family secret, you see." He lay a finger to the side of his nose before pointing it at Bingley, and they all laughed, William the loudest.

"I rather like you, sir," he said, slapping Mr. Bennet on the back. Mr. Bennet smirked and raised his glass in salute.

"And I you, for anyone who can make my Lizzy laugh and blush at the same time must have some wit about him. Tell me, what was it you said to make my cleverest of daughters appear momentarily tongue-tied, sir?" Darcy noted that through Mr. Bennet's distinct sarcastic tone was a hint of caution, perhaps even of warning. _So you do have a protective bone in your body_, he thought, silently congratulating the gentleman. Perhaps warning him about his former childhood friend would not be so difficult a task.

"Oh, mere small conversation, sir. I was telling her of America. You have a, ah-" and he paused, trying to gather his words (or more likely catching what it was he really wanted to say regarding Elizabeth), "She _is_ clever, is she not?" For the first time since he had met him, Darcy saw that his older self appeared nervous. What had they spoken of? He suddenly felt it imperative that he knew yet sensed that William would never divulge the details. Oh, but this was too irritating!

Darcy waited impatiently for the separation to come to an end, doing his best to refrain from repeatedly glancing at the old clock on Mr. Bennet's mantle. He had to pull himself from silent contemplation repeatedly and on more than one occasion felt Mr. Bennet's amused gaze on his face. He was almost certain that the gentleman was teasing him, for surely with his pointed comments on "fine birds", he knew what Darcy was up to?

Then again, Darcy found Mr. Bennet's gaze often alight on Bingley, so he chose to relax his shoulders a bit and give that gentleman the benefit of the doubt.

"Come, gentlemen. Hell is empty and the devils are here, into the breach once more, all the world's a stage and we are merely players, and other apt Bard-ly descriptions," Mr. Bennet finally said not above a half-hour later; with that, Darcy succumbed to the temptation to gulp down the contents of his glass, amused that Bingley was doing the exact same thing. With a happy grin, Bingley bounded after the two elder gentlemen, and Darcy followed at a slower pace if only to steady his confused thoughts and oscillating emotions. _Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast,_ he thought to himself with a smile, silently answering Mr. Bennet's unasked-for challenge.

**sorry, dudes. funeral, job-hunting stuff. i'll try and be better about writing more...**

**once more into the breach, dear friends, &c. -w**


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